it.”
“I did not, sir. However, I believe my master did. I am Priest, the butler.”
I looked at Marcella, but her eyes were closed. “Do you know, Priest, if the opening has been filled?”
“I think not, sir. May I ask your age?”
I told him. At his request, I also told him Marcella’s (she was two years younger than I) and gave him the names of the schools we had attended, described our appearance, and mentioned that my grandfather had been a governor of Virginia and that Marcella’s uncle had been ambassador to France. I did not tell him that my father had shot himself rather than face bankruptcy, or that Marcella’s family had disowned her—but I suspect he guessed well enough what our situation was.
“You will forgive me, sir, for asking so many questions. We are almost a half day’s drive, and I would not wish you to be disappointed.”
I told him that I appreciated that, and we set a date—Tuesday of the next week—on which Marcella and I were to come out for an interview with “the master.” Priest had hung up before I realized that I had failed to learn his employer’s name.
During the teens and twenties some very wealthy people had designed estates in imitation of the palaces of the Italian Renaissance. The Pines was one of them, and better preserved than most—the fountain in the courtyard still played, the marbles were clean and unyellowed, and if no red-robed cardinal descended the steps to a carriage blazoned with the Borgia arms, one felt that he had only just gone. No doubt the place had originally been called La Capanna or Il Eremo.
A serious-looking man in dark livery opened the door for us. For a moment he stared at us across the threshold. “Very well . . . ,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said that you are looking very well.” He nodded to each of us in turn, and stood aside. “Sir. Madame. I am Priest.”
“Will your master be able to see us?”
For a moment some exiled expression—it might have been amusement—seemed to tug at his solemn face. “The music room, perhaps, sir?”
I said I was sure that would be satisfactory, and followed him. The music room held a Steinway, a harp, and a dozen or so comfortable chairs; it overlooked a rose garden in which old remontant varieties were beginning that second season that is more opulent though less generous than the first. A kneeling gardener was weeding one of the beds.
“This is a wonderful house,” Marcella said. “I really didn’t think there was anything like it left. I told him you’d have a john collins—all right? You were looking at the roses.”
“Perhaps we ought to get the job first.”
“I can’t call him back now, and if we don’t get it, at least we’ll have had the drinks.”
I nodded to that. In five minutes they arrived, and we drank them and smoked cigarettes we found in a humidor—English cigarettes of strong Turkish tobacco. A maid came, and said that Mr. Priest would be much obliged if we would let him know when we would dine. I told her that we would eat whenever it was convenient, and she dropped a little curtsy and withdrew.
“At least,” Marcella commented, “he’s making us comfortable while we wait.”
Dinner was lamb in aspic, and a salad, with a maid—another maid—and a footman to serve while Priest stood by to see that it was done properly. We ate at either side of a small table on a terrace overlooking another garden, where antique statues faded to white glimmerings as the sun set.
Priest came forward to light the candles. “Will you require me after dinner, sir?”
“Will your employer require us; that’s the question.”
“Bateman can show you to your room, sir, when you are ready to retire. Julia will see to Madame.”
I looked at the footman, who was carrying in fruit on a tray.
“No, sir. That is Carter. Bateman is your man.”
“And Julia,” Marcella put in, “is my maid, I suppose?”
“Precisely.” Priest gave an almost inaudible cough. “Perhaps, sir—and madame—you might find this useful.” He drew a photograph from an inner pocket and handed it to me.
It was a black-and-white snapshot, somewhat dog-eared. Two dozen people, most of them in livery of one kind or another, stood in brilliant sunshine on the steps at the front of the house, men behind women. There were names in India ink across the bottom of the picture:
“Our staff, sir.”
I said, “Thank you, Priest. No, you needn’t stay tonight.”
The next morning Bateman shaved me in bed. He did it very well, using a straight razor and scented soap applied with a brush. I had heard of such things—I think my grandfather’s valet may have shaved him like that before the First World War—but I had never guessed that anyone kept up the tradition. Bateman did, and I found I enjoyed it. When he had dressed me, he asked if I would breakfast in my room.
“I doubt it,” I said. “Do you know my wife’s plans?”
“I think it likely she will be on the South Terrace, sir. Julia said something to that effect as I was bringing in your water.”
