This excerpt is from the fourth excerpt of
Before the Blood, scheduled for a July 2019 release.
Brumfeldt returned the next day, and the daily routine
returned somewhat to its former state, somewhat, because a slew of decorators
soon descended the morning after a quiet Thanksgiving dinner and proceeded to
transform Arcadia into a wonderland of herbage and sparkling radiance.
Sapin de
Noels in rooms and hallways along with an everlasting supply of fresh greenery
wrapping the doors and archways lent a resinous fragrance throughout the
chateau. Garlands of colored glass beads wound through trees boughs, hand-painted
and hand-blown ornaments hung from branches, as did thin strands of extruded
silver, which caught the winter sun by day and shimmered in the gaslights by
night.
At every
turn stood blood-red poinsettias.
Under the
giant white spruce in the spacious north parlor, a pile of packages wrapped in
stiff paper and tied with satin bows mysteriously appeared and grew larger by
the day. Each tag bore the same name: Henry.
"For
you," Lawrence said with a gentle smile when he beheld Henry's wonderment.
"To compensate for Christmases lost."
Spread
across flat surfaces were various crèches, heirlooms Lawrence had collected from
around the world, Brumfeldt had said.
Now Henry
had seen these displays when running errands with Lizzie or Kitty, so it wasn't
their existence that fascinated him. No, Arcadia's versions possessed an intricate
workmanship lost on the cheaply manufactured versions sold in Leland Hills.
Every
figure, "santons," his uncle called them, whether terracotta, wood,
or ceramic, conveyed emotion, born from carving and paint. Some wore real
clothing, of finer cloth and stitching than ever draped his family.
Joseph standing guard by the manger, staff in
hand, ready to protect the Child and observing it with paternal affection.
Mary,
demure and radiant with new motherhood, hand lightly touching her breast as she
gazed lovingly at her newborn son.
Bowed shepherds,
crouching shepherds, kneeling shepherds gaping with awe.
Magi from
the east, tall and proud, but not too proud to kneel before the king of kings
and present majestic gifts.
A slew of
common folk, their faces frozen in reverent disbelief.
Their lines
spanned entire rooms and wound around the curios: the old, the young, the
blind, the maimed, gypsies, tramps, and trades men and women of every
profession including bakers, chimney sweeps, farmers, fishmongers, flower
sellers, hunters, and washerwomen.
Even the
animals, the donkey, cattle, sheep, camels, and an occasional dog, wore
expressions of hushed wonderment as they beheld the savior of the world.
In the
evenings after he completed his studies, Henry often analyzed and sketched
these figures, discerning and capturing their unique details. So lifelike were
they that Henry would scarcely been surprised if one actually opened its mouth
and talked.
These kept
him quite occupied now that the nightly fireside chats with his uncle, and
Brumfeldt, too, when he was at leisure, were temporarily suspended. The afternoon
post brought stacks of Christmas greetings, which the men read at night in the
west parlor while enjoying glasses of calvados.
"The
Smythes will spend winter in a warm climate," Lawrence said.
"Doctor's orders, Edwina states."
"Holloway's
still in New Haven. Appears permanent after all."
The cards
stretched across each mantle and filled every open space. Some boasted religious
themes. Some hinted at nostalgia: Others poked a cruel sort of fun, like the
two women pushing a terrified elderly man, after they'd rolled up into a giant
snowball.
"Here's
one from the Stones," Brumfeldt said. "And one from Mr. Colin T.
Greene, with an emphasis on "Esquire," no doubt signed by
Elaine."
"No
doubt."
But the
signatures inside meant nothing to Henry, and he found these commercially
produced artworks less interesting than the handcrafted nativities.
"Salutations
from the Harringtons," Lawrence read. "And the Rutherfords."
"Lady
Elizabeth sends her love and hopes she and Carlton can visit soon." A
pause. "Girard?"
"Yes.
Soon."
Even the
grounds had acquired the splendorous spirit. A immense snowfall blanketed the
acreage in early December, which later formed a crust when the temperatures
further dropped. On sunny days, as far as Henry could see in all directions, the
entire expanse glittered with crystals.
"Arcadia,"
Henry murmured, mesmerized by its beauty and feeling pencil alone would do it
injustice.
A week
before Christmas, the carriages arrived, an unbroken rumbling train of deluxe
wagons bringing a perpetual stream of multitudes. The guests ascended and
descended the staircases, skulked in the main parlors, pervaded the dining
rooms, and bowed or curtseyed to Henry as he passed.
"Simplicity
and peace" vanished. Day and night, Arcadia buzzed with voices or the
pattering of footsteps.
"Who
are these people," a stunned Henry asked Brumfeldt when he met him in the
hallway on his way to rhetoric.
"Colleagues,
socialites, meddlers, the curious. You should see the numbers he refused. He
rarely opens Arcadia's doors to the proletariat and when he does, well, people
will delay appearing before St. Peter himself just to see it." He tapped
Henry's chin with his manicured hand. "And stop ogling. Remember, you, not
they, are the prize."
"The
prize?"
"He
did it for you." Brumfeldt checked his watch. "I must take a call.
Now remember..."
"Brumfeldt?"
"Quickly,
Henry."
"The
working class doesn't wear mink and rubies."
"You'll
learn. Everyone is working class compared to Lawrence Girard."
On
Christmas Eve night, Lawrence ordered the opening of Arcadia's three-balconied
theater, spectacular in its white base, green toned etchings, pink marble, and
gold moldings, a delightful marriage of classic French lines and exquisite
Chinese carvings.
What other
delights might his uncle keep hidden within the chateau? Henry had no time to
dwell on it for the concert was beginning.
A glorious chorus
of hundreds of voices presented a full length performance of Handel's Messiah. Henry, who watched from a
secluded box with Brumfeldt, wasn't sure if he believed in God or angels, but the
refrain of these powerful voices reverberating through the theater nearly
tipped the scales in the "Yes" direction.
As the applause
died away, and the audience left their seats for the reveillon, Henry remarked,
"This will make quite a splash in the papers."
The monocle
dropped. An astonished Brumfeldt turned to him as he fumbled for the glass.
"The papers?"
"Yes,
when the stories appear."
Brumfeldt
snorted and replaced the eyepiece.
"And
what does that mean?"
"Exactly
as I implied. Your uncle owns most of the papers. He doesn't 'appear' in them."
Henry gazed
at the throngs below. "Nonsense. All it takes is one enterprising
reporter..."
"To
sell the story to a non-Girard publication? It won't happen. Even if he doesn't
own the newspaper, he owns the owner."
Not until
the crowds dispersed, did Brumfeldt open the door. Silently, they strolled through
the corridors to Lawrence's private parlor. The chatter of happy revelers
hummed in the distance; the concert strains loitered in Henry's mind as he
attempted to digest Brumfeldt's peculiar comments.
The table
was fully laden with a French feast for three. As Henry consumed the oysters,
the roast duck, the croque-en-bouche, and Brumfeldt uncorked yet another bottle
of wine, Henry mused on reliving the Christmas Eve of his mother's childhood, wondered
at Brumfeldt's strange speech, and studied his uncle with fresh eyes.
For
Lawrence Girard, Arcadia's host, sitting at the head of the small table,
consuming traditional food and drink with unflappable steadiness instead of
merry festivity, and making idle conversation with Brumfeldt, had absented
himself from every activity and event in his own chateau.
Henry
grinned as he reached for his goblet.
Society's
elite, thinking they had entered Arcadia's inner chambers and gleaned knowledge
reserved for few, had really only glimpsed a mirage.
And for
what?
"He did it for you," Brumfeldt
had said.
He thoughtfully sipped. It was a
riddle with no answer.
The clock
struck midnight. Brumfeldt and his uncle raised their glasses to each other and
smiled, each man lingering in the tenderness in the other's eyes.
This, Henry
realized with abrupt revelation, this was the real Arcadia.
Photo by Timothy Baran
