SCENE THIRTY SIX March 1st, 1873, Singer's Mirandahl, outside Raleigh, NC
Singer's Mirandahl, named for its first mistress, was filled with gorgeously dressed guests, abundant cheer, superb food, exquisite dance music and entertaining tableaux for Jemison Singer's thirty fifth birthday celebration. In the latter, following a recent fashion, intrigued party guests looked on as various handsome women and well made men created numerous life-like, but silent and motionless reproductions of greatly renowned art works, historical or fictional scenes.
When the ball was well underway that evening, those tableaux began to arrange themselves in the small rooms set off
from the long, brilliantly lit 'hall', where dances at Singer's Mirandahl had been held since its construction. These carefully constructed groups of costumed party goers were in vogue again that year and the party guests looked on with smiling interest, trying as they were meant to, to guess what scene from legends, history, fiction or mythology was being presented. And some of them were mere distractions, giving the guests a peak at Marie Antoinette in the Tuilleries, or Patrick Henry, some years earlier, declaiming in the House of Burgesses, or George Washington, taking the surrender at Yorktown of Lord Cornwallis.
Some of them had more layers of meaning and these the 'players' staged with even greater care for who they expected to be watching, as much as for what they conveyed. Now a fine turned wooden screen stood the role of a prison cell's door, and grim faced Citizens guarded despairing 'aristos' behind it. Scenes from Dicken's tale of Revolution and redemption multiplied as the evening wore on, and once again Sidney Carton fell in love with a beautiful French emigre in London, only to note she was in love with a man who could be his own twin.
Once again Doctor Manette returned to Paris to plead for his well meaning, doomed son in law, to no avail. And once again a vital promise was kept, and a great and willing sacrifice made, as one man mounted the steps to his certain death while another escaped La Guillotine, considering what it would mean to him, and to the faithful friend he loved Lucie Manette Darnay, faithful always to her Charles.
Two men changed places in that tale, woven out of a desperately dark time. Two men who bore just enough of a resemblance to make one a free man twice in ten years, and the other a hero to those few who knew what he'd given up for a mother and her child. And at Singer's Mirandahl the story was told in silence, while those men, who bore just enough of a resemblance changed places throughout the evening, seeking to become neither heros nor lovers, but protectors of those they cherished, against all odds.
The ballroom at Mirandahl was, according to the family legend, the first or second room to be finished here, taking its graceful shape with multiple alcoves and sitting rooms on each side, either just before or just after the sleeping quarters. Portraits of Mirandah Robineau Singer and her successors, in a long standing tradition, hung in the ballroom, the latest addition being auburn haired Sarah Elisabeth Ashton Singer, Ben's wife, posing with their daughter.
And despite any other changes in ther fashions, each mistress of the 'Hall' was painted wearing the family's chief heirloom, a Huguenot cross either as a brooch or a pendant. This time honored symbol of a lively, even defiant faith that lived and thrived despite brutal persecution was formed of a royal blue Maltese cross, surrounded by tiny fleur de lis, the arms of the cross were linked by what were called vines or branches of thorn, forming elongated hearts between each arm, and from the lowest point of the cross hung a white enameled dove, for the Holy Spirit.
"Why, Saribeth, that pendant you have on in your portrait is just extraordinary!" Rowena Fairholm exclaimed, studying her hostess' picture closely. "And it's really quite historical too, isn't it, dearest?"
Saribeth grimaced at being addressed so familiarly by a woman she loathed. Not only was Fairholm known to be a part of all the recent troubles her cousin James West had gone through, but she'd chosen to wear what was just possibly the ugliest ball gown Saribeth Singer had ever seen, a collage of eggplant colored velvet and satin drapings and ribbons, badges and bits of lace that overwhelmed the older woman's petite frame like a storm tide. But Fairholm had been invited tonight for reasons that made her presence just bearable, and so far she was doing her part.
"It first belonged to Mirandah Singer, yes. And of course our home was named for her. Although I have heard that we later generations made an error in the pronunciation, that simply got stuck that way. The story goes that Morgan Singer originally named their home 'Singer's Mirandah Hall'."
"Oh, yes, yes of course! I have heard a great deal about that lovely, quaint little romance." The woman from Richmond nodded, noting with barely hidden envy the copper silk gown Saribeth wore tonight, trimmed with creamy heirloom lace at the low necklne and puffed sleeves, adorned with panels and trailing ribbons of bronze velvet. "It's a delightful old story, almost a fairy-tale, don't you think, dearest?"
"No, I happen to know it is our family's genuine history, Rowena." Saribeth answered with icy sweetness in her tone. "Morgan saved his Mirandah from persecution for her beliefs and together they journeyed half way across the world, having fallen deeply in love. Then as they rebuilt their lives here in the New World, Mirandah actually saved their home by selling her jewels. But Morgan well understood what that cross meant to his beloved wife. So he got it back for her, in as short a span of time as he possibly could."
"Oh, oh, well that makes it all the more fascinating, doesn't it, my dear?" Rowena Fairholm asked, more of her male companion than her hostess. This companion was an elderly gentleman with a bald pate, badly stooped shoulders and evident chronic pain in his lower limbs, as he leaned on Fairholm's arm on one side and a stout, ivory topped cane on the other. "I said, my dear old friend, don't you find Saribeth's stories of Mirandahl utterly fascinating?" The woman from Richmond asked, raising her voice slightly.
"What? What? Oh, oh, surely, Rowe, surely! Oh, oh, Mrs Singer, beg your pardon ma'am. I don't believe I took proper note of your coming into the gallery here. Such fine old paintings, surely." The seemingly deaf old man said, peering at Saribeth, and smacking his lips together as if they were very dry. "Beg your pardon, surely."
"Thank you, thank you kindly sir." Mirandahl's present mistress answered, beaming at the old man. "Rowe, dearest, when were you going to introduce me to your perfectly charming escort?"
"Why, where are my manners, dearest? Doctor Anthony Edward Rutledge of Charleston, this is our hostess and my very, very dear friend, Mrs Benjamin Michael Singer, or as we've always called the darling woman, 'Saribeth'." Rowe Fairholm said, nodding from one of her companions to the other.
"Doctor Rutledge, not of THE Charleston Rutledge family, surely?" Saribeth flirted, grinning as the Doctor bowed stiffly over her hand and then looked up with his wide, dark brown eyes to wink with absolute mischief at her.
"I have that sometime honor, yes, ma'am." Artemus Gordon in character as the old doctor nodded, and winked again. "Although not all of the family counts it such an honor these days, with so much changed from the heyday of our line. You know I'm referrin' to our famous ancestors and signatories of the Declaration, I assume, ma'am."
"Why naturally, sir. All of the South, and especially the Carolinas have reason to admire and revere the Rutledge brothers as two remarkable figures in an extraordinary era." Saribeth agreed. "It's so good of you, Doctor to come down to our little party for my brother in law. He's Doctor Jemison Stewart Singer."
"Naturally, naturally ma'am!" Artie as Rutledge boomed. "Why that young scoundrel made a truly fine presentation to the Carolinas Medical Society just last year on … on… well, now I can't seem to recall …Whatever was that paper of his on? Ah there you are, you young rapscallion!" Artie called out as another gentleman approached them. "Whatever was the subject that little paper of yours for the Society, Jemmy?'
"Presbycusis, Doctor." Jim West as Jemmy Singer' answered dryly, bowing his thick head of sandy hair to the ladies. He was wearing a midnight blue tuxedo with subtly embroidered lapels and cuffs, their design taken from the same Huguenot cross as seen in the all the portraits along the hall. But his well known elegant style was marred tonight, as it had been for more than a fortnight lately. The young doctor had been ordered to wear a deep green banker's clerk kind of visor over his eyes, and to protect them further in direct light or any brightly lit rooms such as this one, by adding a pair of dark green spectacles to his ensemble.
"To be more exact, it was on my research into the apparent profound correlation between Presbicucius and Senile Dementia. Ladies, your servant as always. Doctor Rutledge, I am actually quite glad you made it down to Mirandahl tonight. And not for my own sake, for my young cousin Torry's." 'Singer' sighed and shook his head.
"Oh, yes, yes, Doctor. We've been hoping to have you consult on our poor cousin's sad condition." Saribeth agreed, her warm hazel eyes welling with tears. "Torry's been in such awful shape since our dear cousin Jimmy Randolph passed on, last month. He's been so ill again, and so despondent. Of course you won't know that Cousin Jimmy helped to raise Torry after his momma died, years and years ago."
"And yet you say he's still a young man, Doctor?" Rutledge probed, following the script for this scene. "What then, in general terms, seems to be the trouble?"
"Torry will only be thirty three on his next birthday, July 2cnd." Saribeth interjected. "And he's been quite healthy really, for quite a long time. Well, until he was … injured four years ago, that is. And now, we're all terribly terribly afraid that our Torry won't … won't celebrate … another birthday! Oh, I'm sorry, Jem. Go ahead and explain the matter to Doctor Rutledge. I shouldn't have interrupted you."
"Not to worry, Sari." 'Jem' answered. " Torry developed a heart murmur as a boy, Doctor. One that hasn't given him any trouble whatever, not until as my dear sister in law mentioned, he suffered a traumatic injury a few years ago. In fact Torry's always worked hard at staying in the best of health, according to his own natural inclination and the demands of a career he greatly enjoyed undertaking.
And he's just a grand, grand fellow, one who should have every chance at his three score and ten… truly…. I hate the idea that my cousin may be cheated … Unfortunately, his health declined to an unexpectedly great degree, after that injury. I'll explain the circumstances to you, later. It's just that, he's done so much with his life till now, you see. So we can see by that just how much more he might… It's only that … we all think so very highly of Torry…"
Artie as Rutledge swallowed a groan as Jim in the guise of Jemmy started in on his own eulogy. Frowning, the older agent coughed a little loudly and leaned on the younger man's shoulder for a moment. "You're really laying it on with a trowel, there, Jemison, old man, don't you think?" he whispered. "Cut back on the praising Caesar routine, at least until we have more of an audience, alright?"
"Hey, you got to do your own funeral service, remember? But, okay, okay, I guess I might have gone over the top, just a little there." the younger agent chuckled, and then reverted to the dialogue they were supposed to be running for the benefit of some very particular listeners.
"Doctor Rutledge, what we're most concerned with at this point is that Torry's suffered severe but temporary occulsion of the mitral valve on three occasions in the past year. That has led us to a probable diagnosis of mitral valve stenosis. But of course we have no way to be certain. It's not as though we could examine Torry's poor, wearied heart directly."
"No, not as present limitations stand, Doctor. And how have these three occulsions been treated? With digitalis, I presume or some of those capsules developed from Mr. Nobel's explosive? With what success?" Rutledge asked, letting his dark gaze seem to wander while in fact it lighted on an expected if unwelcome guest standing just close enough to listen in on their discussion.
"With both, Doctor, and on each occasion we've been able to ease Torry's pain and regularize his pulse, but nothing more." 'Jemmy' frowned. " My hope was that you yourself, Doctor Rutledge, or someone in the Charleston Medical Society might know of some thing that might help him to a greater extent. My hope was in consulting with you, Doctor, some other means or method of helping my cousin might come to light, that we might find Torry some sort of hope… Well that was my hope before this evening, when…" Singer stopped and shook his head mournfully, evidently unable to continue his explanation.
"Jemmy, Jemmy dearest," Saribeth said, putting her arms around the man she addressed as her brother in law. "don't torment yourself over that. It wasn't your fault at all. The dear boy wanted so much to take a couple turns around the dance floor…" Jemmy's sister in law said, turning to look past Rutledge into the crowd behind him. "Torry wanted so much to dance with me and then just once with Jeanny Stuart, and then only once with Gilly Spencer… But he'd hardly begun to dance with Jeanny, you see, when our poor dear Torry just … collapsed! And now of course we're all terribly frightened for him!"
"Why how perfectly dreadful!" Rowena Fairholm exclaimed. "Such a young man, to be so terribly afflicted? Why, one is reminded of the worst days of the Conflict! Oh, Saribeth, I'm so sorry for … I mean that I sincerely hope… well that is… I mean to say… "
'Rutledge' held his temper back now with barely a sign of effort, his companions noted. He showed nothing of the outrage he felt, except for a minute tightening of his jawline for a moment. This Richmond prima donna, after all had done her worst against both Jim West and Jessy Miller, ending in near tragedy for Jim and wholesale murder for Jessy and her family.
"Your sympathy for that particular young man's troubles is very well understood, ma'am." The 'old doctor' answered coldly. "And much welcomed I'm sure, however belated. Jemison, old man, I would be more than happy to consult on your cousin's case. I can surely understand why you feel the need of another pair of eyes in this case, you young troublemaker!" Rutledge exclaimed. "Just what sort of foolishness have you been up to that has you wearin' that visor?"
"Oh, my yes, I wanted ask … " Rowena Fairholm gasped, looking with evidently great concern at "Jemison'. "Doctor Singer, my dear sir. Whatever could have happened to your fine, handsome hazel eyes, sir? I was never given to understand that you'd been injured!"
"Oh, this, this absurd visor I'm being made to wear just lately?" 'Jem' answered and shrugged. "This nuisance is in place due to my own failing… my failing to stop reading medical tomes when my eyes were already burning with exhaustion. So now I'm being forced for the next several months to do no reading whatever and to keep out most direct light sources. Of course I have no real choice but to comply with my doctor's orders, I'm sorry to say. The inexorable alternative would be… certain blindness. Well, a physician who can't see his patients is hardly able to help them. And a physician who can't read these days is shortly going to fall behind on all the crucial medical journals. I really need to stop being so reckless with my health and this was a clear warning."
"But how very dreadfully annoying for you. One expects all important written materials must now be read to you, almost as if you had lost your sight?" Rowena Fairholm asked as part of their script. Then as scripted she leaned closer to 'Jemmy' as if to conspire. "What a perfectly awful inconvenience for you! I should be more than glad to do some reading for you, Doctor Singer, while I'm visiting our dearest Saribeth and your brother here. I've been told I have a good, clear voice… for the distaff gender. Saribeth, Doctors, please excuse me now, I'm quite distressed by all this news. I believe I shall retire to that lovely alcove over by the eastern portico for a brief while."
"My apologies, ma'am for distressing you over an entirely temporary problem." 'Jemmy' answered.
"Rowe, dearest, let me send you some brandy, to ease your nerves while you're resting." Saribeth offered. "It was the Calvados you liked so much when we had some at Antoinette's ball, in Richmond, wasn't, Rowena?"
"Oh, oh, no, dearest Sari. When I'm trying to recuperate from a shock, I really must have a dram or two of the Armagnac. It's so soothing, really." Fairholm insisted.
"Then I'll get some sent over to you directly, Rowena." Saribeth nodded. As Fairholm shook her silver blonde curls at them and left the small group behind.
"Not to mention it's the most expensive sort of brandy, next to cognac, that is." Artie/Rutledge muttered, turning his back on the Richmond matron. "Well, now we know Boudin's waiting for her in that lovely alcove!"
"And we know she'll give him all the details he couldn't have heard from his listening post, two yards away." Jim/Jemmy answered frowning in the direction of his partner. "Now, just calm down, Doc Rutledge. It won't help anyone or anything if you lose your temper and alienate 'our dearest Rowe' right back into Boudin's column. And it won't help anything or anyone, if you blow your stack and have a genuine heart seizure yourself, tonight."
"Are you tryin' to chide me for my temper, for my rashness, or for my bluntness, you young reprobate, you?" Artie as Rutledge complained, fully enjoying himself in this character. "Are you? Well, if that is the case then I shall return the favor by sayin' a word of warnin' where I see it as needful."
"Which in this case, is in my ear?" Jim as his cousin Jemmy asked, hiding a grin. "Just what did you want to warn me about, you old codger?"
"Somethin' you have only limited means of payin' heed to, just now, my young friend. That woman, for example, is flirtin' shamelessly with you, Jemison, old man. And she seems to think she can quite easily charm the goggles right off your eyes!" The older man answered.
"Which you're not sure she hasn't done already, Anthony m'boy." The younger man retorted. "But you really do know better, Doctor Rutledge, sir. You really do know how little I trust the woman who had Jessy Miller and her family murdered. And you know we need someone inside Boudin's operations to make this King Spider trap work, too. So what would you change about our plans right now, Doc? Would you send my cousin Torry, even now, sick and mixed up as he is these days back to see his old friend, Remy? Because if he thought that was needful, you know very well he'd attempt it."
"Touche." Artie/Rutledge grumbled. "And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have lost my temper with … our dearest Rowe, just then.
It's just for such a methodical, calculated source of chaos as she is, she strikes me as astonishingly vain and empty-headed, most of the time."
"But, Doctor Rutledge my dear sir," Saribeth Singer interjected. "It was Rowena's vain and shallow nature that brought us her cooperation in this newest attempt to bring Gideon Boudin to justice, finally. I know, because I read Ani's account of their 'meeting'. She and Miguel only had to appeal in the end to Rowena's deepest fear, losing her looks, such as they still are, to years in prison. They told her she was very likely to be sentenced to a long term in the Women's Federal Penitentiary near Baton Rouge, as I understood. Well, she was considered quite the belle in her youth, of course. And like a great many wealthy, well protected women of my acquaintance, the fear of losing that girlhood dream is a devastating prospect for Rowena."
"And she's already accomplished something we weren't sure that anyone on the team could manage." Jim as Jemmy Singer noted. "Clearly, as you said yourself a moment ago, Doc Rutledge, she was able to bring Remy Boudin to Mirandahl, to bring him down here to terra incognita for him, giving us an advantage we've never had against that King Spider before now."
"So now, what?" Artie frowned. "As I recall you and Jeremy, Ori, Ani and Miguel were very much in favor of playing the rest of the evening's festivities by ear, Jemison old man, and wait for Boudin to make his usual melodramatic entrance. But Mac and Jacques, a lot of the second string and I were greatly in favor of a far more scripted production. And I'm not clear on which conclusion we came to. And you know how working improvs make me jumpy."
"He actually loves a good improvisation." Jim/Jemmy told Saribeth with a daybright grin. "Its just that our friend here would rather he's the only one doing the improvising."
"You got that right!" Artie/Rutledge whispered. "And there's something more. I used to enjoy a good subterfuge as well as the next man, my friends. But right now I'd very much like to go right over there and throw the lunatic in question out and over the east portico! But you're not coming along for the fun, not this time, Doctor Singer."
"He's getting so impetuous in his advanced old age, isn't he, Sari?" 'Jemmy' chuckled. "Well, I'll tell you what, Doctor Rutledge, sir. If Mac Macquillan okays my going over to directly confront the homicidal lunatic in question, at this early stage in the evening's festivities, I'm sure he'll do the same for you. After all, that King Spider bears you no special enmity, right? He only ordered his thugs to murder and mutilate a good friend of yours, just so he could get hold of you. And when that nasty little subterfuge worked out perfectly, he finished up nine days of real fun by having you beaten almost to death. And we still don't know why they never finished the job, old friend! So, guess what? Neither one of us is going to face off with Remy Boudin tonight or any time, with less than half the team directly at our backs."
"Works for me, Doctor." 'Rutledge' laughed in turn. "But don't you think someone should have accompanied our 'dearest Rowena' over there to make sure she's not double-crossing us, instead of Boudin?"
"Oh, there's no need to worry on that score, Doctor. I know our dearest Rowena won't even think of doing that, my dear, dear Doctors." Saribeth Singer giggled.
"Why not?" both men demanded.
"Because my very dear sirs, she knows that Ani, and I and the other Richmond ladies, will cheerfully testify against her, at trial. But we're not about to hold back as you kind hearted fellows promised to do, only threatening Rowe with prison, to gain her cooperation. No indeed. We've already made a pact amongst us, that if she breaks trust with us, she and her cruel hearted cohort will have all the help we can give, all the help we can give to get them to the gallows, that is! And Rowena knows about our pact in every particular." The mistress of Mirandahl answered, with a taut grin.
"And that's why they've always said the female of the species is more dangerous than the male, Jem, old man." 'Rutledge' quipped, albeit a tad nervously.
"Yeah, get that, Doctor, figure that." 'Jemmy' nodded, and then turned towards Saribeth. "Sister in law, won't you give me the next dance, please?"
"She can't do that, Doctor." 'Rutledge' grinned. "Because she's going to dance with me, next. Aren't you, lovely lady?"
"She can't do that either, Doctor." Silver haired, grey eyed Ben Singer interrupted. "Because she's been waiting months and months, not to say years, now while I worked out certain limitations left me by the late Unpleasantness. And now the lady of the house is going to dance the night away in the arms of her devoted husband."
"Oh, you darling, darling man!" Saribeth exclaimed, smiling bright as daybreak, as Ben walked towards her with only one cane as an aid. "This…this is what you kept going to the guest house, or the tack room, or the wine cellars to work on?"
"It is, will you forgive my subterfuges, my dearest heart?" Ben asked, smiling into her warm hazel eyes as he embraced her. "I thought we were going to have a ball at Christmas. And you were very disappointed when we didn't. But no one was happier than I was, when the weather made it impossible for our friends to travel here. Because at that time I was still fairly unsteady on my feet, you see."
For his answer the elder Singer brother only got his wife's warm embraces, and whatever she happily whispered to him, and seemed thoroughly satisfied. Both 'doctors' grinned as the still very much in love couple stayed in the circle of each other's arms. Ben had been grievously wounded at Spottsylvania, nearly nine years ago. And for a time all his friends and kin feared he could not survive for any length of time. Then it seemed Ben would live but might be bedridden. And when he overcame that crushing debilitation three years ago, and soon thereafter he and Saribeth concieved their daughter, his family and friends feared that despite being a dynamic, fiercely independent 'Tar Heel', Ben Singer would never stand, much less walk again.
"C'mon, Doctor." 'Jem' said, still grinning, and nudging 'Rutledge'. "Even with this visor, I can tell when we're not needed here, just at present." "Let's get some punch or maybe go punch somebody, whichever comes first."
"What, oh, surely, Doctor, surely." 'Rutledge' nodded, going fully back into character, and following his colleague across the hall.
"Oh, my dear Doctor Rutledge!" Rowena Fairholm called out just as the two doctors reached the east side of the ballroom.
"My dear, dear Doctor Singer, I'm not feeling at all well. Would you kind, handsome gentlemen please assist me? I'm feeling quite, quite vaporish…" The Richmond matron complained and nearly fell into the pair.
"Why, surely, Mrs. Fairholm, ma'am." 'Singer' agreed, easily catching the socialite. "Let's just come over here, over to the side parlour here, and help you to lie down for a bit."
"You need to be calm, quite calm now, Mrs. Fairholm." 'Rutledge' gently chided the woman, as they moved her to a velvet covered chaise, swallowing his loathing for her and her participation in their plans.
"But please, do tell us what could have upset you so badly?" 'Jemmy' asked. "If any so called gentleman at this wretched birthday party has insulted a fine gentlewoman like yourself…"
"Oh, oh, no, Doctor. That was not the case." Fairholm shook her head, as 'Singer' offered her a good strong shot of brandy.
"I simply … I was so astonished when I saw … when I saw… " The older woman leaned a lot closer to 'Singer' than 'Rutledge' liked to see, not trusting her an inch, and whispered to them both. "Our old acquaintance… from Atlanta and Port au Prince…. He's not looking at all himself this evening, Doctor. He's drawn and indeed, almost grey in complexion. He's quite nervous and easily startled. He kept looking over one shoulder or the other while we talked, just now. And then he'd stop still and hold conversation, if you can call it that, with someone who … simply wasn't there at all."
"That's very interesting, ma'am. That's very interesting indeed. Any idea who our old acquaintance is seeing and talking to who's not here?" 'Rutledge' asked.
"Yes, oh, yes, indeed, I do, Doctor Rutledge." Fairholm nodded, after sipping more brandy. "He called him by name. He called this … imposible, invisible visitor, Stephan, Stephan Johannes Sebastian Aynsley. And I can tell you that in forty years and a little more, I've never seen Remy Boudin go so pale or tremble so badly in the presence of any living creature. Indeed, the only exception I can come up with is the demeanor he always had in the presence of Miss Helene Terese Beatrice… his late, lamented momma. And as a matter of fact, I do recall Remy conversing with her for just months and months after she had gone… to her Reward."
"However deep in the bowels of Hell that Reward turned out to be." 'Singer' nodded grimly. "My colleague's right. That is a very interesting … bit of information. We'll leave you to rest and recuperate now, ma'am, I hope you will feel much better when you return home."
"I know I shall, Doctor Singer." Fairholm agreed, laying one hand on the younger physician's arm. "I have been feeling very much my old self lately, after the little talk I had with our dearest Ani and her charming spouse. Excepting for some profound regrets… which I still hope you will someday accept."
"When you finished your talk with Ani, ma'am, I believe you and I discussed what might be done to … relieve the tension you felt in that regard." 'Jemmy Singer' told her, very quietly. "Have you made any progress on that matter?"
"Oh, yes indeed. The work started several weeks ago, in that same district of old Richmond, Doctor. By the time the season changes there will be a school, a church, a women's home, a library, a laundry, a bakery, a seamstress shop, a children's home, and several other business concerns … on that tragic site."Fairholm explained.
"There will be decent, respectable, honest work for all the women who come there, well and able enough to take it. And that dear, dear Doctor de Cervantes is opening his second free clinic there, especially for the needs of … those working women and their families. I'd add that myself and Mr. Fairholm have added a whole new wing to our old home and a whole new section to the lumber mill… providing honest labor for numerous freedmen, and a whole new …group of homes… as well. And every single element of these projects is dedicated to young Jessy… that is, I mean, to Jessamyn Talitha Fairholm Miller and her family."
"Thank you, ma'am." Jim in the role of Jemmy Singer nodded and offered a sad half smile. "I have a strong feeling that Jessy would like all that. Yes, she'd like all that very, very much. Just one last thing. Is our old acquaintance on his way now to see my cousin Torry?"
"He was headed to the open bar first, Doctor. It seems to me he's already been imbibing quite a lot this evening and needed more." The matron of Richmond society answered.
"Well, that should make things even more fun." Artie as Rutledge grinned fiercely. "Go on up and give them signal as soon as you see Boudin in that hallway. "And I … have to say, I'm more grateful for your efforts, Mrs. Fairholm than I expected to be."
"And a great deal more surprised, Doctor?" Fairholm asked. "Well, frankly, gentlemen, so am I."
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In one of the larger sitting rooms opening off of Mirandahl's ballroom, another well rehearsed scene began no more than three minutes after Rowena Fairholm left her companions. A pre-arranged signal, delivered by that always pragmatic Richmond matron, let them know they had their target audience and the occupant/players in that room opened their scene. Jemison Singer, taking on the role of his cousin James West, half sat, half lay against a stack of pillows on a comfortably wide, heavy framed daybed, His face was drawn, his head well back, his grey blue tuxedo jacket, vest and cravat thrown aside, and his shirt, one of his best cream colored silk and cotton evening shirts, lay open from his collar line almost to his cummerbund.
Jacques D'eglisier, Jeremy Pike, Antoinette and Miguel de Cervantes made up the rest of this scene's cast, keeping careful watch as their patient 'James West' worked to breathe more slowly and more evenly with some effort. He was pale as the damask curtains on the windows behind him and brutally exhausted. And it could be plainly seen that some wound or injury or surgical 'insult' had been recently done to the chestnut haired young man. Thick pads of bandages were held against both his eyes by wide gauze strips wrapped around his head.
"Mon enfant, you must keep still now. Already once tonight you have suffered what I may generously call a milder heart seizure than some others you have had in the last few months. Mais, added up this is your third such attack in something like seven weeks."Jacques insisted, standing closest to the daybed and taking 'Jim's pulse. "We knew these surgeries would come with some cost to your stamina, Jim. However I am now even more concerned than I was at first."
When he was able to breathe well enough to complain, Jacques' patient did so only with an effort. "You… you're a … worry… worry wart… always were…I'm not… I'm … not… collapsin'…now, y'know." 'West' grated. "So would all …y'all for th' love …of G-d, consider starin' holes… in each …other for th' next… ten or twenty seconds, anyhow? My head… still aches… so this … idea you've got… of starin' holes in it, plainly…"
"Once more our attempts at trephination ended in failure, Torry. I'm afraid to say." Miguel replied, trying hard to keep a straight face.
"Then just…just… cut it out!" 'West' exclaimed and then groaned at himself. "No, … nope…. On second thought…I've had… too…too many… too many … scapels … comin' way too close… just lately t' my head. So, forget… that, okay?
" Well, we'd be glad to oblige you on that, Pal." Jeremy agreed. "But we have to try everything we know, when our patient is acting like his head or his heart is ready to explode all over the upholstery in here. And our patient at the moment is acting that way, as far as we can tell, Jim, because his blood pressure is heading back up through the roof. And so keeping a close eye on you tonight seemed like a plan."
"Yeah, cause it'd be… a … darned… a darned shame… ruinin' all these …fancy horsehair… n' velvet… velvet pillows." 'Jim' retorted, but slowly because he was running short of breath, again.
"Nor would it be a very polite thing to do to our hostess, mon enfant." Jacques chuckled. "After all, consider how hard it would be to remove certain … bodily substances from not only those pillows but these fine carpets and draperies."
"Oh, now that … that … makes me feel about a …thousand times …" 'West' scoffed. "…better… all this… all this goin on… here t'night… and you… you're all worried sick… 'bout … cleanin' bills."
"Non, non, Torry, mon cher!" Ani protested, taking 'Jim's hand', and doing her best not to giggle. " Non, tu faises pas comprends, mon plus cher Duc. You have not understood our concerns, my most dear Duke."
"Fine, Ani, that's fine. Maybe you can get me to understand them." 'West' suggested, still frowning.
"One can only try, cheri. And I am more than glad to make the effort." Ani said, sitting in the ornately carved chair next to the daybed. "Will you do me the kindness to listen, Torry?"
"Ani, I can't turn… you down. And …you know that. So…go on ahead." Her 'patient' grumbled.
"Bien sur. Remerci, M'sieur. Torry, you have come so far in recovering, despite all the trials and tribulations of recent months alone. You have done so well, cheri, despite cette tragique, this so sorrowful loss you've suffered in only the past month now. As your friends and some of your doctors, our concern is in fact in two parts. First all we would not, we do not wish you to lose the benefits of your recuperation to date. And second, we have no desire that you should return to cette abattement, that depression you suffered so much from in the past few years. So we take extra care and we issue extra … cautions, Torry. And we keep watch over you. And all that is so that we shall not soon find ourselves mourning you as you now mourn ton plus cher oncle, your dearest uncle. Est ce que tu n' comprends pas ceci?" Antoinette asked.
"Non, j' comprends bien ceci. I understand that better than I want to, Ani." 'Torry' admitted, glumly, his shoulders slumping, his defiant manner shut down, at least for now. "I just keep thinking …Jimmy… would only have …been sixty nine on …the … the seventeenth of last month. And … that …doesn't seem fair to him, or as… old to me now…as it might … might have done..."
" "Well Torry, since you will reach the advanced old age of thirty one this summer, it's perfectly understandable you should feel mortality rushing, rather than creeping up on you." Miguel chortled, looking up from one of his favorite journals.
"Miguel," "West' grinned. " I'm gonna be thirty… three, not thirty one on my… birthday. And to my mind that begs …the question, when …are you, or are you ever gonna …admit you …were off on my birthdate by exactly, exactly two years?"
"Clearly, my friend, I was spitefully misinformed by egregiously inaccurate and I would add, probably beaureaucratic sources at that time." Miguel scoffed. "And to my mind, this discussion begs the question, why wouldn't you be pleased to be thought of as two years younger than you are?"
"Ask Jacques." 'Torry' responded, chuckling lightly now. But then he began to frown again. "He's always callin' me 'mon enfant', when he's no more than two years my senior. Anyway, this discussion started out to be about why all of you insist on watchin' me these days as if I'm about to fall over dead! Which I'm surely not! I'll freely admit I've felt better. I'll even admit I've been feelin' what Jimmy would always call 'low in my mind' … since he passed on."
"And you were in evident physical distress, again, when you left the ballroom less than an hour ago, after dancing almost constantly since the ball opened tonight, Torry." Miguel somberly noted.
" I like dancing… with the right partners, anyhow. And who says I was in … distress? What in …the devil makes you… say … that?" 'West' demanded, scowling and at the same time beginning to wince.
"Because, Torry, from the state of your room, the clothing you've hurriedly discarded in all directions and the posture you're adopting this very moment, it's evident to me that you are no less reckless of your own health and well being now than you were at our first encounter." Miguel complained, loudly enough to be easily heard outside the room.
"And under the present circumstances, speaking as your physician, that is not in the least heroic, valourous or intrepid. No, that is heedless, rash and irresponsible in the extreme. I am quite displeased with you and the return of this native … this…inherent…"
"Reck…reck…lessness?" 'Jim' supplied, biting down on his lower lip, and then doubling over, breathing harshly again.
"Thank you, yes, this recklessness of yours. Torry, lie back now! Put your feet up!" Miguel called out, just as loudly as before. "Breathe as slowly as you can, my reckless friend, but do me the kindness to go on breathing! Ani, Jacques, why does this young imbecile not have either the nitroglycerin capsules or the digitalis compound readily to hand?"
"Be… be…cause … they… stole… stole…my…" 'Jim' whispered, as he tried to comply with Miguel's demands.
"Torry, hush!" all four doctors standing in the room called out at the same time, as Jeremy handed Miguel one of the nitro capsules.
"Torry, you know how this works very well by this time." Miguel chided his friend. "So stop acting like a recaltricant child and take this capsule under your tongue, immediatemente, amigo mio."
"You…you just… want … want to blow me…up. But that's … against … dunno… Doctor-rules." 'Jim' complained, but he opened his mouth and made an effort to keep the placebo Miguel gave him carefully in place.
"Just at the moment, Pal, yes, we do, very much indeed!" Jeremy scowled. "But you're right, Jim. That is, however unfortunately, against our very oldest Doctor-rules. So just do as you're told, and everything will stay completely ethical between us, friend."
"Why heavens, Torry! My dearest boy!" Gideon Boudin exclaimed rushing into the room from the other hallway. He
started to take one of the chairs by 'Jim's' bed, and lean over the sick man, peering closely. "Why Torry, Good Glory!
I had no idea, no idea at all, not one that you'd been taken so ill! Has this been the case ever since our dear old Jimmy…"
Before 'Torry' could take enough breath in to answer, Artemus Gordon, to all appearances, ran into the room and grabbed the Georgian with all his strength.
"Get the hell away from Jim West, Boudin! Get away from him this minute, or you might not have the time to regret it! I'm warning you for the first and only time. Get out of here, you filthy bastard!" 'Artie' shouted, pulling Boudin bodily away from the man on the daybed. The 'players' in the room knew this was Eli Morgan, taking on his cousin's part, so Artie could get ready for his next scene. But Boudin's own life long biases worked against his noting any differences in the angry man. In fact, the Georgian wasn't even looking 'Gordon' in the face, as he tried to pull free of his grasp.
"Artemus, mon ami!" Ani called out, shaking her head. "N't' disquiet pas, mon bien ami."
"Unhand me, Gordon! Let me go, you ruffian! I said, let me loose, you miserable Jew-dog, you contemptible cur! You will release me at once, Hebe-Actor, or I shall certainly sue you for assault with intent to commit mayhem on my person!" Boudin hissed, and tried to raise his ebony topped cane.
'Artie' let Boudin go now, but only because instead of being furiously angry, the former actor was abruptly laughing aloud so exuberantly he nearly lost his breath. "You… you… you're going to sue me? Is that what you just said, Boudin? Because that's what I thought I heard you saying just now. You're going to sue me for assault with intent to commit mayhem? Oh, that's almost too rich! That really does, as they say in these parts, take the cake!"
"I see nothing the least bit humorous in the vicious, totally unwarranted attack you just made upon my person, Hebe!" Gideon Boudin insisted, shaking out his suit coat as if he'd just discovered it held fleas. "But given your background and your long time avocation amidst charlatans, fahkirs and other low lifes, perhaps you are merely succumbing to the well known, well documented strain of madness to be found amongst your race!"
"M'sieur, if you have no respect for our colleague and our bien ami, that is your folly." Jacques scowled, his bright hazel eyes flashing with manifest outrage, and walked over to stand beween Boudin and the man now wheezing softly on the daybed.
"But as you seemed to note only a moment ago, this is a sickroom, where such accusations and diatribes are completely unwelcome, not to say deletirious to my patient. I would therefore prefer you take your medieval lies and slanders somewhere else entirely, though. But if you cannot do that, if you find you truly must go on insulting, denigrating and threatening my long time friend Artemus, I must insist that you do so absent his company and in some other part of this fine old house or its grounds and at once!"
"And you would be?" Boudin asked, looking down his long nose at the Lyons' born team doctor. "No, no, I believe I do know of you, sir. You would be M'sieur l' Docteur Jacques Merlion Etienne D'eglisier of Lyons, France and Montreal in British North America, would you not?"
"Oui, M'sieur. C'est moi. Now, you will leave." Jacques ordered, folding his arms across his chest.
"Well, I only now heard that Torry was ill at all." Boudin protested. "Indeed, I only the other evening learned of our dear old Jimmy's demise. So, when I heard Torry was here at this wonderful old Southron home, I knew it my duty as a long time friend to them both to bring my condolences and my …"
"Whatever you've brought here, Boudin." Jeremy sternly interrupted, joining his friends. " I would have thought by now you understood we won't allow it anywhere near Jim. We've never known of our friends Jim and Artie both for that matter getting anything but deadly harm from you and your pals. In fact, it's been mostly a matter of sheer luck for some time that either of our very good friends here survived encountering you at all. That being the case, you need to go."
"Torry, dearest boy, is it your wish I should leave you at this juncture, amidst so much animosity? I hardly think that could be the truth of the matter, Torry. You know I've never done you the least, not the least bit of harm." Boudin insisted, turning to look at 'Jim', while ignoring the team. This was no more than they'd expected from the Georgian and still Antoinette had to fight back the urge to gasp at his open denial of 'the truth of the matter'. But their scene was only two thirds over, and it was 'Torry' who'd just been given his next cue.
"Rem… Rem…Remy?" the young man on the day bed whispered, turning his face in the direction he'd last heard Boudin's resonant voice. "Remy… you're… you're… here?... When… when?" he asked apparently struggling with each word he produced.
Boudin smiled thinly at the rest of the team and strode quickly back to sit beside 'Jim'. "I only arrived a short while ago, dearest boy. And it was not until I'd been here more than an hour that I learned you're unwell! Well, as soon as I was apprised of your condition, naturally, Torry, I came to see how I might help."
"Help… yes, yes, help… " the man on the daybed nodded, whispering. "… dunno… dunno… maybe… maybe … can't… maybe… can…"
"Why certainly I can be of a great deal of help to you, my dearest boy!"Boudin insisted focusing on the younger man.
"Isn't that exactly what I've always done for you, Torry? Haven't I always helped when you were in some sort of trouble or other? And I shall, again. What nonsense have these crepe-hanging Yankee crows been handing you, Torry? What absurd delusions of Unionist doom and gloom have they imposing upon your vibrant young spirit? And how should they know what that spirit needs most? Who more than myself knows your shining essence, after all, dear Torry?"
"Remy… Rem… Rem… my… my … Jimmy … Jimmy … died… Remy…" Jemmy as Jim West mournfully answered. "Jim… my… He's… He's gone… now… All… all… all… there was… all there… was… of … of … momma… He's … Jimmy… he's… gone, now, Remy…"
"And I was devastated, truly devastated, Torry, to hear of that dear old man's passing, truly." Boudin lied, seeing how badly confused 'Torry' was now. "How very tragic for you, my boy, knowing how you two cherished each other. But I don't understand … what has happened to you, dear boy? Why are your eyes bandaged in this way? What on earth has been done to you, Torry?"
"Jim had surgery on both his eyes, Boudin." 'Artie' answered, stiffly. "A change in the procedures allowed far less time
between the corneal transplants done for him. We had some hope… We still have some hope that Jim will recover his vision."
Boudin stood up now, and glared at 'Gordon', then turned his gaze about the room to frown imperiously at the group of
doctors. Finally the Georgian stared at Miguel and his wrath spilled over.
"What on earth have you … What macabre cruelty have you practiced on Torry this time? Do you consider me entirely ignorant of your prior atrocities and threats against this dear, dear boy, Doctor? Do you believe I am unaware of the long term enmity you bear my old friend Jimmy's cherished nephew? And now, by some means of persuasion or intimidation I cannot begin to comprehend you've been allowed to maim Torry in this barbarous fashion?"
"No, Mister Boudin." Miguel answered very calmly. " You are either lying or greatly misinformed. And frankly, from what I know of you, I'd choose the latter to believe. I consider that you practiced far worse atrocities than I ever thought of in my darkest of times, against this young man from the time he was sixteen months old, sir. I believe that you were aware and took fullest advantage of certain rifts in my young friend's family to do him the most egregious harm humanly possible, until he was physically old enough to be of no further interest along those lines to you, sir.
But you weren't in fact done with Torry at that point in time, somewhere around his ninth birthday, no, sir. For you continued from that time a programme of mental and emotional torture, seeking always to alienate the boy from his blood kin. His father, his uncle, his older cousins, his grandparents all served as unwitting targets of your campaign of estrangement. All of them had authentic, loving bonds with that young boy. And so those bonds are what you've labored ever since to wreak your havoc on.
And now, you come here, to Torry's sickroom, behaving as if you had some genuine, outraged regard for a young man you've sought most of his life to destroy, so long as that destruction was accomplished in ways that suited your barbarous intentions. But I and the rest of Torry's friends here, as well as his remaining kinfolk all know better, Boudin. So you will leave my patient now, and forever. You will have nothing more to do with Torry, from this moment. I will allow you no further access to him, and I'm not convinced I should have allowed you this much."
"You are an evident liar and a slanderer, sir!" Boudin hissed. "You could know nothing of my actions or intentions towards this fine young Southron. You could know nothing of my life long regard for him and his late uncle. And it appears you have no real knowledge of the boy's tragic medical condition, if you carried out such painful, unwarranted, loathsome … procedures at this point! What else could explain performing such pointless …"
"Silencio, usted maldito cobarde, usted rey de aranas y cobardes! " Miguel answered, too angry to keep to his third language. "Be silent, you damnable coward, you king of spiders and cowards! And by the way, I can't help noting you call me a liar without saying which of my statements were false, in what I said about your involvement with my patient. You call me a slanderer without pointing out what statements of mine could be considered slanderous. And your own statements just then, Mr. Boudin, did nothing, nothing whatsoever to answer the specific charges I leveled against you. And yet you made claims against my medical practice and procedures despite knowing nothing about them. I'd also note that…"
"Mi- Mi- Mi-gel… Mi… gel?" Jemmy as Jim whispered shakily, reaching in the direction of the small doctor's voice, clearly disturbed by the quarreling around him.
"I'm here. I'm here on your left, Torry." Miguel said, immediately going back to his patient and taking that young man's hand. "And I'm sorry to have quarreled so loudly, just now, Torry. I know that angry voices worry you. I'm afraid I lost my temper, something mi abuela preciosa warned me against most of my life. But everything's alright now, Torry-Little. No one here, no one who wishes to remain in this room with you now will continue to raise his voice in anger, including myself."
"Mi-gel… Mi-gel…" Jemmy said again, biting his lower lip in evident distress, and lapsing into the voice and diction of a little boy. "Torrys Littles did be… havin 'nother many much …of baddes' scare… dreams. Can makes dem… scare dreams go ways, plees, Mi-gel?"
"Yes, Torry-Little. I surely can." Miguel said, looking straight at Boudin while he patted his patient's back. "In fact that scare dream is leaving right this minute. I expect to see it gone before you get back to sleep, again, mi pequeno. Esde ese loco claramente hablar no Espanol, tomare un momento contar usted algo." Miguel leaned closer to Jemmy and continued to whisper. "Son haciendo muy pozo de veras. El completamente tonteria. El miro a usted directamente y todavia el hacia no entender quien veia aqui, mi amigo."
"Vendajes socorrido, pero gracias, muy gracias amigo mio." The man on the daybed answered
" Stop that childish behavior at once, Torry! Stop it all of you, I say! This absurd performance will now come to an end!" Gideon Boudin shrilly demanded. But before he could continue, Jacques, Jeremy, Ani, 'Artemus' and half of Ori's team abruptly lined up between him and the sick man. Then they simply started walking the Georgian backwards towards the doorway and out into the hall behind him. With Boudin now outside the sickroom, Ani turned back to help her husband with their 'patient'. The rest of the team stayed put, saying nothing at all to the sputtering, swearing Georgian. They seemed to be waiting for someone and in another few minutes, Ben and Saribeth Singer walked down the long hall to join their friends and colleagues.
"I am addressing Colonel Michael Benjamin Singer, I presume?" Boudin asked, turning his full attention to the North Carolinian.
"You just can't get anything right this evening can you, Boudin?" Eli as Artie chuckled. "He's Brigadier Benjamin Michaelson Singer, retired of the 2cnd Corps, Army of Northern Virginia, having raised and commanded the North Carolina 7th Light infantry from First Bull Run, or Manassas if you prefer to Spotsylvania Courthouse. Oh and as to your most likely next question, yes, he owes this beautiful old mansion."
"Thanks, Artie." Ben grinned and turned to glare at Boudin. "Why are you disrupting the peace of my home, and of my cousin and life long friend, Jim West, Mister… Mister… I'm sorry I don't seem to know who the hell you are, sir…"
Boudin flushed dark red, looking as if he would jump out of his skin or simply explode and shouted. "I, sir? I am Gideon Alexander Remiel Boudin, of The Cadmea, outside Atlanta, Georgia and L'Argonne, near Port au Prince, in the Republic of Haiti. And I am not the one disrupting your lovely home, Brigadier Singer. No, indeed not. These alleged gentlemen, and that freakish little man in the next room …"
"Stop right there, Gideon. You will cease your lastest self serving but otherwise pointless diatribe this instant." A rich, stern, powerfully compelling voice ordered from further down the hallway. Following their script and its stage directions to the letter, none of the team members moved an inch or gave any sign that they heard that deep, unmistakably Viennesse accented voice. Only Boudin jerked around as if on marionette strings looking up and down the hall for the speaker. Only Boudin spoke, albeit shakily, calling out to the man who could not be here, and yet whose voice he heard so distinctly.
"Stephan? Stephan, my old, my dear old friend!" Boudin cried out, still looking for his long dead colleague. "Stephan, I know I just heard your voice. Now where are you, Stephan?"
"Follow the east west bar of the cross, old friend. Simply follow the east-west bar of the Maltese cross old friend. And at its western end within the realm of the Dove, you will surely find me, watching and waiting for you, Gideon, just as I promised." The voice that could not be and yet was Stephan Aynsley's answered, and fell silent.
"I … I don't understand." Boudin muttered. "I don't understand, for one thing, he's been dead these four years now. And what could this nonsense be he's saying about east west crosses… and arms and doves…"
"Why, I thought everyone from Baltimore down to N'Orleans and from Charleston on out to Natchez would be familiar with that old, that original story about Mirandahl at this point." Saribeth replied, looking plainly astonished. "But you don't know the history of our family home, do you, Mr. Boudin?"
"I'd have to guess he doesn't, Sari." Eli as Artie offered. "Why don't we all sit down across the hall, where we won't be disturbing Jim and you can tell some of those stories?"
"That's a grand idea, Artie." Sari agreed. "Gentlemen, we have a very comfortable sitting room at the end of the hallway.
"Won't you accompany me there? I'll send down for some Armagnac for you, Mister Boudin, shall I? You look a bit peaked."
"Well, I should be … " Boudin hesitated. "No, perhaps I should be … going." The Georgian reiterated.
"But how are you going to figure out whatever you heard your ummm… deceased friend, who I assume was Stephan Aynsley, said to you, Boudin, if you don't understand his riddle?" Eli/Artie urged him, baiting and setting out the 'rat-trap' again.
"Are you implying, Hebe–Actor, are you suggesting, you damnable Yid, that I alone heard Stephan's voice just then?" Boudin snarled.
"No, Mister Boudin, I'm not implying or suggesting anything at all. I'm stating outright, and for the record that there was no voice besides our own to be heard in this hallway. My best guess in that case is that you were talking to and scaring the beegeezus out of yourself, just now." Eli in the role of Artemus replied, grinning fiercely from ear to ear.
"And speaking strictly as a physician, Boudin," Jeremy took up the topic. "at your age it's not advisable at all to get worked up that way. You really should come across the hall, sit a spell, and have a dram, as Mrs. Singer offered."
"Well, I … I am quite fond of the Armagnac… if you could spare me a dram." Boudin admitted, looking paler and more infirm by the moment, almost as if a strong puff of wind could take him off his Italian leather covered feet. "That would be by me, most appreciated, madame."
"Well, come on along, then, gentlemen, and friends." Saribeth smiled, winking at Eli. "It won't hurt any of us, or our friends downstairs if we relax for just a bit. Linking one arm each with Eli and Ben, the lady of the house led the way and led the discussion for the next ten minutes or more.
"Well first of all, Artemus, I'm afraid I let you get some elements of Mirandahl's story wrong, the other day, when we were sharing it with Jeanny's daughter, April." Saribeth said, when she had her guests settled and the brandy poured. And no one in the group seemed to notice or be concerned when Gideon Boudin sat nearest to the hallway.
" I didn't want to embarrass her in front of so many of our friends. Girls her age are very sensitive about that sort of thing. And I didn't want to interrupt either one of your narratives, because you did get most of the story perfectly right. But now that we seem to have a new mystery developing in this lovely old home of ours and I feel obligated to set the story to rights." The lady of the manor said.
"Well, now, Sari dearest, when it comes from a lady as gracious and dare I say beautiful as yourself, "Eli said, winking and keeping to his role as his lady-loving cousin. "I'm always delighted to sit corrected."
"Thank you, kind sir." Saribeth answered, and giggled a bit, and blushed.
"That will be quite enough of your incorrigible flirting with my better half, Artemus." Ben Singer insisted, with a wink of his own. "And in fact, I think I'd better be the one to take up this corrected version of the family history. It goes something like this: Singer's Mirandahl was built in 1678 by Morgan Michael Singer of Devonshire, a man who fell in love with the great granddaughter of a Huguenot woman named Madeleine Christianne Robineau, that ancestress having fled Paris at the time of the St. Bartholemew Day's massacre. That difference, of nearly one hundred years between my great grandfather's day and the 1572 massacre, orchestrated by Catherine de Medici, was the main discrepancy between the historical account and the story young April and our friend Artemus told the other day.
Morgan Singer was in Algiers when he met Mirandah Eugenie Robineaux, an extraordinarily beautiful woman, as the legend goes, who had retained all her ancestress' charms along with her faith. And there was some sort of trouble there in northern Africa. And Morgan Singer did offer Mademoiselle Robineaux his help, by way of passage on his merchant ship as he headed home to the British colonies in North America. But she almost refused him, thereby potentially cutting off both the history and the legend of Mirandahl then and there.
The Huguenots, as it turned out had taken a stance they shared with the Society of Friends and very few others in Europe at that time, against chattel slavery. And mademoiselle Mirandah wrongly suspected Morgan of being a slaver, with a ship's hold full of 'black gold' to be sold off in the colonies. When he proved his innocence of that charge, the lady accepted Morgan's offer. And on their voyage home, they fell in love, and Morgan converted from his rather lacksadaisical Methodist faith to be a Huguenot.
And the story took its second to last turn when Morgan proposed marriage to Mirandah, and she turned him down again. She was still gravely concerned about his plans to build a rice or tobacco plantation in the Carolinas. She said she would never marry him, despite the fact that she greatly loved Morgan by then, or any man who made slaves of other men. Well, luckily for Jemmy and me and all of his descedants, Morgan came up with an answer on the double quick. He wrote out a contract of marriage for himself and Mirandah, in which he took his most solemn oath that no home or property of his would ever bear the taint of chattel slavery. He would take on anyone who would accept a term of indenture, to pay off their own passage or to settle an outside debt. But he would neither purchase, nor sell, nor breed human beings into slavery. And on those terms, Mirandah accepted Morgan's proposal and the ship's captain married them something less than a month before they made landfall in the West Indies."
"Now tell them what that history and that legend might just have to do with Mr. Boudin's visitation, darlin'." Saribeth urged her husband, handing him a cup of tea.
"Tea? You're givin' me tea this early in the evenin', my darlin'?" Ben complained, but sipped it nonetheless and turned back to his audience. "Morgan Singer didn't just convert to the Huguenot faith, my friends. He was a man who never did anything by half measures. And that being the case, when he found the right architect to build a home for himself, Mirandah and their expected progeny, a year after they married, Morgan gave explicit instructions, orders really, on how the plan of this house should be laid out. And when those plans were drawn up he took them straightaway to Mirandah, along with a smaller present, the gold and royal blue and white enameled brooch Mirandahl's ruling ladies have worn at all special occasions and in each of their portraits, ever since, in the shape of a Huguenot cross.
And that same design was the inspiration of his plan for this mansion. There are four wide halls on both floors wider at each farthest end than they are at the starting point, with four smaller and then four smaller rooms branching off between those wings. And there are eight narrower corridors circling the whole from one wing to another, to another, tying all together, with small alcoves set at each jointure. And on the first floor, a roofed but otherwise open corridor connects the main house to what we nowadays call our guest house. On the upper floor, a similar sort of long, decorative hallway attaches this floor to an artist's loft. And in the wine cellar, a tunnel runs between the mansion and several well hidden chambers, where everything from Revolutionaries to runaway slaves to Confederate and Unionist wounded have been kept safe from their various pursuers." Ben finished and supped his tea again.
"Darlin' you forgot one vital element." Saribeth scolded, but she was smilng. "The guest house and its upper and lower adjuncts was designed by Mirandah Robineau Singer, not her husband. And she had them built in roughly the shape of the dove, symbolizing the Holy Spirit, that hangs as a pendant from Mirandah's brooch. That being the case, it has always been known as the Dove House, or …"
"…the realm of the Dove." Gideon Boudin muttered, jumped to his feet and rushed out of the sitting room as fast as his long legs could take him.
"Well, I guess he finally took the hint." Jeremy Pike chuckled, as the Georgian disappeared down the hallway.
" Now all we have to do is make sure he takes the bait!" Eli Morgan agreed, grinning ear to ear.
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Translation of Spanish dialogue
Miguel
Since that lunatic clearly speaks no Spanish, I'll take a moment to tell you something, You're doing very well indeed, He's completely fooled. He looked at you directly and still he does not understand who he saw here.
Jemmy
Bandages helped, but thanks, my friend
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