April of Enchantment Page 5

  “I expect you would find it boring. It was written by a young girl, and the few bits of usable information have to be sifted out of descriptions of balls, gowns, tea parties, and endless paragraphs of gossip about people who are represented only by their first names.”

  “Sounds fascinating. I suppose it belonged to an ancestress of yours?”

  “My great-great-grandmother,” she admitted.

  “A family heirloom, then; I can't really blame you for not wanting to trust me with it.”

  “It isn't that I don't trust you,” she protested, then went on as he lifted a quizzical brow. “I don't have it with me just now,”

  To her relief, he seemed to accept that. After a moment, he changed the subject. “I also wanted to know what you think of the kitchen addition. I suppose you looked over the plans while they were being drawn up?”

  She inclined her head. “I see no reason why they shouldn't be compatible. Finding enough pecky cypress wood in the outbuildings to build the cabinet fronts was lucky. As to attaching the building to the older construction at the back, the kitchens of quite a few of the houses constructed on this plan were built that way in the beginning.”

  “I thought they were usually separated from the house to decrease the likelihood of fires?”

  “So they were, and the earlier examples usually did have a breezeway between the house and the kitchen wing just for that purpose. But with the fire-prevention system that you are installing, and with today's more fire-resistant materials and techniques, that won't be such a great danger.”

  “There are some who think I'm crazy for not converting one of the downstairs rooms into a more convenient kitchen.” He slanted her a quick look.

  “The kitchen, as it's planned, is convenient to the dining room, and that's what is important. If the builders of these old places had opted for convenience years ago, most of them wouldn't be nearly as well preserved as they are today. The problem is not only with fires, but with smoke, steam, the fumes and grease of cooking. It destroys wall covering, distorts the colors of paints, and disintegrates fabrics. In some houses where families have continued living in them for generations, they still have the original drapes and curtains at the windows after more than a hundred and fifty years. That would have been impossible if there had been a kitchen inside the house.”

  “You would think that the ladies of the house would have jerked down the old drapes after the second generation.”

  “That happened in some places,” Laura said, a smile rising in her violet eyes. “But most of what is still in use was made from expensive materials imported from France and Belgium, and wasn't easily replaced. Then there was a little set-to called the Civil War while most of the window coverings were still considered fairly new. For long years after that, there was no money to replace such things, a fortunate circumstance as far as historical preservationists are concerned. Then along about the turn of the century tradition took over, and all that faded grandeur became a badge of honor. To change anything would have been a sacrilege.”

  “By that time, the Romans no longer lived at Crapemyrtle, but from what yon said yesterday, the Nichols family was still in residence. Is that the way it was where you live?'”

  “Not exactly. Nearly every generation of Nicholses has been a large one. With so many children, there was a great deal of wear and tear. Then, as the sons and daughters left home, they took bits and pieces with them. Louisiana law doesn't recognize primogeniture; the firstborn son has no more right than the last-born daughter. Nearly everything was divided up except the house itself. The only thing that holds true is that there was no money for fancy late-Victorian gothic additions, or anything of that sort. The arrangement of the rooms is almost exactly the same, though a few conveniences like bathrooms and kitchens have been added—inside, as you might have guessed.”

  “No,” he said in grave disapproval.

  “Yes. We couldn't afford a complete new addition, you see, or a servant, and my grandmother absolutely refused to traipse up and down the whistler's walk another time.”

  “The what?” He sent her a quick look of inquiry.

  “You don't know of it? It was the covered arcade that served as a weather protection from the kitchen to the dining-room door. The servant boys who ran back and forth trying to get the food to the table while it was still passably warm were required to whistle so that the cook, and also the master and mistress, would know they weren't sampling what they were carrying on their platters and trays.”

  “Ingenious. I'm supposing, naturally, that it's impossible to chew or swallow and whistle at the same time?”

  “That was the idea,” Laura answered. “I've never tried it to be sure.” She was intensely aware of him there beside her in the close confines of the classic car. She was going to have to cure herself of this self-consciousness in his presence. It would not do if they were to be thrown together time and time again in the months ahead. There was no time to consider it, however. They were drawing up before her house.

  Laura turned to the man beside her as the engine died away. “Thank you for bringing me home. Russ shouldn't have asked you to do it.”

  “He didn't. As I said before, I volunteered, to give us a chance to talk.”

  “I hope you didn't leave earlier than you intended on my account.”

  “You don't have to worry about that. I can always go back if I find myself too much at loose ends.” Dismissing the subject he looked past her, bending his head to catch a glimpse of the upper floor of the Nichols mansion. “I can see why you are proud of your home. It's certainly attractive, at least on the outside.”

  Laura glanced at him with uncertainty mirrored in her eyes. Could he possibly be hinting that he wanted to see the inside? “If you have the time, then,” she said with care, “I could offer you a cup of coffee by way of repayment.”

  “That would be very nice,” he agreed, and as if he had been waiting for nothing less, opened the car door and got out.

  Laura's mother came from the rear of the house to greet them as they entered the front door, moving with grace down the long central hall.

  “Mom,” Laura began.

  “You must be Justin Roman,” Mrs. Nichols said, speaking at the same time, forestalling the introduction. “I'm so happy to meet you.”

  There was no pretense in her warm graciousness. Her faded blond hair framed her face in a classic style of midlength. This morning she wore a soft blue blouse with a gray sweater and skirt. Despite modern dress, she did not look at all out of place in her surroundings. Laura was suddenly proud of her.

  Apparently Justin had been told of their circumstances and of the antique shop, since he had not mentioned it earlier and showed no surprise at the discreet price card on the Victorian oak hall tree and the umbrella stand near where they stood. He returned her greeting. “I was just admiring your home.”

  “I suspect you have a greater-than-average interest,” Mrs. Nichols answered. “I can't tell you how glad I am that someone has bought Crapemyrtle. For such a fine old place to be allowed to stand empty was a pity. And, of course, the fact that you are a Roman is extremely appropriate.”

  “Russ had to go back into town, and Mr. Roman brought me home,” Laura interposed. “I thought he might be rewarded with a cup of coffee.”

  “That's a good idea. I was about ready for a cup myself. Shall we go upstairs?”

  As they turned toward the staircase that rose against one wall, Justin stood back to let the two women go ahead of him, placing his hand on the newel post. As his fingers touched the yellowed ivory piece that centered the top of the post, he glanced down at it.

  Laura's mother noticed his curious glance. “That is a mortgage button,” she explained. “It was placed there by the original builder, my husband's great-great-grandfather, as a symbol that the house was debt-free. It has never been removed; the house is still free and clear.”

  Justin glanced around him. “I have so much to learn.”


  “It will come to you in time. The traditions have been accumulating for years, they can't be assimilated overnight.” Laura's mother smiled. “But perhaps you would like to see the rest of the house? Despite the price tags sitting around on everything down here, I think you can gain some idea of what it used to be like. Laura can show you around while I make the coffee.”

  “I would like that,” he said simply.

  There was nothing else for Laura to do except lead the tour. She didn't mind, of course, except for a niggling feeling that she and her mother had been maneuvered into displaying their possessions. Why it should matter, even if it were true, she could not have said, and yet she felt an instinctive need to protect herself where Justin Roman was concerned.

  They walked through the lower rooms. Smaller than Crapemyrtle, the house was built on a simple plan of four rooms up and four down, with a Georgian portico in front and a double gallery in the rear. The lower floor of the back gallery had been enclosed for a kitchen, a sun room, and a combination bath and laundry. Laura pointed out the comforts of what had been the sitting room and dining room, crossing the hall to the back bedroom, and ending in the parlor, a more formal room that had been saved for company while the family used the sitting room in the evenings. She indicated the cornice moldings here, which were made of wood, hand-carved in one piece. Though in a simple, Federal style, they were considered to be very fine.

  Justin nodded his comprehension, then moved to stand in front of the Adam's mantel that graced the fireplace, his attention on the portrait above it.

  The painting in subdued oils, marked with a placard that indicated it was not for sale, was a full-length likeness of a woman attired in a gown of billowing white caught at the waist and the full sleeves with lavender ribbon. She was an ethereal creature with pale blond ringlets falling over her shoulders, and a shadow of unhappiness in her eyes of violet-blue.

  “Who is she?” Justin asked, a deep note in his voice, though his brows were drawn together in a frown.

  Laura took the reluctant step that would bring her close beside him. “'My great-great-grandmother. Her name was Lorinda.”

  “She was lovely, but she doesn't look real.”

  “I assure you she was,” Laura said, forcing a brisk note into her voice. “Shortly after that portrait was painted, she married my great-great-grandfather, the son of the man who built this house. She had nine children, twenty-six grandchildren, and twelve great-grandchildren when she died just after the turn of the century, at the age of seventy-seven.”

  “What's that she's holding in her hand? It looks like a rose.”

  “It is, a Cardinal de Richelieu she says in her diary.” Her face stiff, Laura stared at the double rose with its rich, dark, violet-red tint, like a drop of blood against the virginal whiteness of her gown.

  “So this is the lady who wrote the diary?”

  Laura answered in the affirmative, turning away. “I'll show you the upstairs now.”

  Justin did not move. “You are very like her.”

  She flung him a quick glance, wondering if he realized the oblique compliment he had paid her. “Do you think so? Other than the coloring, I've never been able to see the resemblance myself.”

  He turned to look at her. “So I'm not the only one to point it out?”

  “No.” Laura withstood his scrutiny with as much composure as she could muster. The expression in his eyes was strange, bordering on fascinated appraisal.

  “How does it happen she wasn't carried off with the other bits and pieces you mentioned earlier?”

  He spoke of her almost as though the portrait was a living entity. “The frame looks like ormolu, but it's actually gold leaf over bronze, and is extremely heavy. It's bolted to the wall through the paneling behind it. When the plaster was renewed in this room in the late 1850s, it was brought to the edge of the frame. Removing it would leave an ugly empty spot in the wall.”

  “Someone meant to be very certain she remained here, didn't they?”

  Laura stared at him, a right feeling in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  He smiled, turning away. “I meant someone valued her portrait, of course.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Laura echoed. But as she tread beside him up the stairs, she was still disturbed.

  They had coffee before the sitting-room fire. Laura's mother seemed to feel no constraint in Justin's company. She spoke with ease, carrying the conversation, asking about his parents and first one and another of his relatives that were still living in the town and surrounding area. Laura had little to add, and was just as happy sitting in the corner of the couch, sipping the hot, aromatic brew her mother had made, listening to their discussion. From relatives and acquaintances, Mrs. Nichols moved to a businesslike discussion of furnishings for Crapemyrtle. There were one or two of the original pieces that she knew about in the hands of local families. If Justin was interested, she could approach them with the object of buying them for him. With these things in place, it would be possible to find other items of similar style, value, and antiquity to complement them.

  “I don't mean to be pushy,” Mrs. Nichols said with a charming smile, “or to feather my own nest at your expense, but you will have to furnish the house somehow, and Laura and I have some experience in this matter. If you have no objection, I would be glad to contribute something of my time to this restoration. There will be no obligation on your part to take anything I may suggest. On the other hand, if you and your fiancée have other plans for choosing furnishings, you have only to tell me and I'll say no more.”

  Justin shook his head. “I would be delighted to have anything that belonged to Crapemyrtle. As for the rest, if the pieces I've seen downstairs are anything to go by, I'm sure whatever you choose, Mrs. Nichols, will be worth looking at.”

  Laura sipped at her coffee to hide both her surprise at his easy capitulation and her amusement at her mother's combined acumen and excitement. It was quite a coup for her. Her mother was proving herself a good businesswoman, and though Laura was surprised that she had used the occasion of her own hospitality to further her ambition, it had been intelligent of her to broach the subject of furnishings at the first opportunity.

  Justin finished his coffee and set the cup on the table at his elbow. “I was interested in the portrait downstairs. If I'm not mistaken, it was done by George Peter Alexander Healy.”

  “Why, Mr. Roman, how marvelous of you to recognize his work!”

  He laughed. “I'll have to confess that I saw his initials in the lower left-hand corner.”

  “You still recognized the painter, though, which is worth something. His work is superior, isn't it? The portrait was done while he was visiting New Orleans in 1843, while my husband's great-grandmother was in the city for the season with her parents, shortly before her marriage.”

  “I understand that this is the lady who penned the diary containing references to Crapemyrtle.”

  “That's true, and it is captivating reading, besides being most helpful for Laura. She was quite an author, was Lorinda, good not only at describing everything she saw, but at capturing the characters of people, your great-great-grandfather and his lovely wife in particular. She was also good at portraying her own emotions.”

  “It must be a wonderful volume. I wonder —”

  “Mother,” Laura interrupted. “Was that the door bell?” It was no pretense. She really thought she had heard the old-fashioned twist bell that announced customers to the antique shop below.

  “Was it?” Mrs. Nichols rose. “I mustn't ignore possible sales. I've enjoyed talking to you, Mr. Roman.”

  “Please call me Justin.”

  “Justin, then. If I am able to locate any of the Roman furniture or other pieces I think might interest you, I will tell Laura, and she will let you know.”

  There was no need for her to leave them, however. On the landing, Laura's mother met the person who had rung the bell.

  “Anybody home?” Laura heard Russ Masters
ask in jovial tones before he entered the room with her mother. “Laura,” he went on, “am I glad to see you! I came by to see if you made it home all right, and make my peace with you after leaving you in the lurch like that.”

  Laura smiled over the back of the couch. “As you can see, there was no problem. We were just having coffee. Won't you join us?”

  “Don't mind if I do.”

  “I'll get it,” Mrs. Nichols said, waving Laura back into her place, smiling a little as she watched Russ lounge into the room and drop down on the couch beside Laura. The two men spoke, then Russ placed his arm along the back of the couch, cupping Laura's shoulder, giving her a brief hug.

  “What about you, Justin? Would you care for a refill?” Laura's mother asked.

  “Thank you, no, Mrs. Nichols. It's time I was going.”

  “Don't let me run you off,” Russ said as the other man got to his feet.

  Justin Roman smiled, a slight softness in his manner. “If I meant to stay, you couldn't budge me.”

  “That's a matter of opinion, old man,” Russ said, laughing in a mock challenge.

  Justin shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips, before he turned to his hostess, thanking her for the coffee. Saying he could find his own way out, he left the room, though Mrs. Nichols followed him, on her way to the kitchen. Their voices continued, muffled by the door, for several minutes, then died away.

  Laura sat staring at the closed panel for long moments. Justin had not said good-bye to her. It was not necessary, of course; she would be seeing him again soon.

  Russ cleared his throat. “I'm not in your bad books, am I—I mean really and truly?”

  Laura faced him with a smile, ready to be distracted. “Should you be?”

  “It's possible, since I left you stranded with Justin.”

  “I told you it didn't matter.”

  “I hated doing it, but when he offered to take you home, I could hardly say I didn't think you would care to go with him.”

  “No,” she agreed musingly, “that wouldn't have been too wise.”