passing the hat to get everyone to pick up the tab for his little soiree. He sure can’t afford it. Hope you brought your checkbook. Heh-heh-heh.”
I disconnected as Alison Jennings pushed open the bathroom door, a large glass of red wine in one hand. Her face, ghostlike against her black-and-ivory gown, was drawn and she looked like she was about to pass out. I shoved the phone in my purse.
“Lucie,” she said, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Her voice was hazed with pain.
“What’s wrong?” I took her wine, afraid she’d drop the glass on the marble floor. “Ali, are you all right? You look like you ought to sit down.”
She clenched her teeth and put her fingers to her temples, but at least she let me guide her to a wooden chair in the bay of a large window. I set her wineglass on the counter.
“I’ve got the beginning of a migraine,” she said. “I hope I make it through dinner because I’ve got to give that talk.”
“Can I do anything?” I nearly dumped her wine in the sink so I could fill the glass with tap water until I saw the nonpotable sign. “Shall I try to find you a glass of water somewhere?”
“That’s okay. I’ve got something but I hate to take it. Makes me woozy. I never should have had that wine.”
“Shall I get Harlan? I haven’t seen him this evening but—”
“He’s somewhere,” she said. “I think he’s wandering around the exhibit.”
“I’m on my way upstairs to see it. Why don’t I find him and let him know you’re here?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be all right in a minute.” Ali closed her eyes. “Still having Harlan’s party on Tuesday, y’know. Did you forget? I’ve got no wine.”
Her Viognier.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted I forgot to tell Frankie, but it’s no excuse. I promise I’ll take care of it myself first thing tomorrow. You mind a Sunday delivery?”
“Nope.” Her eyes were still closed.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Harlan says we’ll get through this. I wonder.”
I wondered what “this” she was talking about.
“Did you hear Sir Thomas’s speech?” I asked.
Her laugh sounded like glass shards. “Tommy can woo an audience like no one you’ve ever met, get you to believe he can walk on water. Amazing, isn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Lucie, come on.” She waved a tired hand, dismissing me, Tommy Asher, everybody. “He’s hemorrhaging so badly it would take a miracle to salvage that sinking ship. Not that he isn’t expecting one. Neither he nor Harlan wants to admit it. I don’t know how much longer they can hold off their clients, refusing to allow them to make withdrawals from their accounts. The worst of it is—well, for me—that Tommy’s going to have to sell this whole damn collection. He can’t afford to donate it and I’ve already heard from a friend in the librarian’s office that they no longer plan to accept it anyway. It’ll be a temporary exhibit.”
“What does Harlan say?”
Her eyes were bright with tears. “He doesn’t want to talk about it. This isn’t his fault, y’know? Harlan’s a good man, Lucie.”
“Ali—”
“Please. If you could just give me a few minutes alone to pull myself together.”
She fled into one of the stalls, banging the door shut. I heard her hiccupy breaths and thought about waiting until she was ready to come out. But she wouldn’t, not as long as I was still in the room.
“I’ll find Harlan,” I said, but I didn’t think she heard me. The bathroom door creaked on its hinges as I left.
I took the elevator around the corner from the Giant Bible of Mainz to the second floor. The Asher Collection’s glossy brochure contained a map showing the chronological time line by which the exhibit was laid out in the four loggia galleries that overlooked the Great Hall. It began in the north corridor, which ran along the front of the building closest to the Capitol. The elevator let me out in the east corridor, which was three-quarters of the way through the collection, dedicated to the War of 1812 and the rebuilding of the Capitol and the Library of Congress after the fire. A glass étagère striped with red and gold paint depicting flames held the newspaper cartoon that had been on the cover of the brochure. More paintings, watercolors, lithographs, and newspapers showed the city of Washington ablaze on the night of August 24, 1814.
“Nobody but the English would do such a thing.”
I whirled around. My cousin Dominique, regal in a smoke-colored sequin-spattered chiffon gown that perfectly set off her auburn hair, stood on the stairs to the Visitors’ Gallery that overlooked the Main Reading Room. She moved and the sequins glittered like dark diamonds. Behind her was an enormous mosaic of Minerva, her spear in one hand and a long scroll in the other.
The animosity between the French and the British was legendary, dating back to Joan of Arc. Even though Dominique was now an American citizen, my cousin held up her end of the grudge on behalf of the French. She descended the last few stairs, swaying slightly. I wondered if she’d been drinking.
“Do you know why they burned Washington?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. The British were furious at the Americans for attacking their navy and burning the city of York in Canada. The plan was to destroy Washington, not capture it. That way they would humiliate the Americans.”
I took her arm and smelled her breath. She’d been drinking, all right.
“It was a vendetta,” she said. “Revenge on their former colonies. A blood feud that began with the Revolution. That’s
The Roastbeefs. The French nickname for the British. The British reciprocated with “Frogs.”
“I hope you didn’t use that term around Simon,” I said. “Since he’s English.”
“He’s not really English. His father was French and his mother was Dutch. He just happened to be raised in England while his mother was married to Tommy’s father.”
That laid to rest one mystery why she was seeing him—he wasn’t really British.
“How well do you know him?” I asked.
Dominique hesitated. “I need to tell you something. In private. There’s no one upstairs in the Visitors’ Gallery. We can talk there.”
“Are you okay?” I asked. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough,” she said.
“Or maybe a little too much? Maybe you should knock it off.”
“Come on,” she said.
We climbed the three flights of stairs, the marble treds worn so uneven I needed to hold on to the brass railing. I followed her into the glassed-in corridor that overlooked the immense octagonal Reading Room with its soaring coffered dome. Eight massive arched stained-glass windows with the seal of the United States and the seals of the states gave the room its natural light during the day. Now at night they were opaque, with an occasional glimmer of the jeweled stained glass winking in the dim light. Flanking each window was a carved figure on a pedestal supported by a dusky red Corinthian column. Two stories of arcades with views of book-lined alcoves ringed the perimeter of the room. On the balustrade across from us, eight pairs of bronze statues watched over hundreds of desks arranged below in concentric rows.
“Lucie.” Dominique shook my arm. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry, I got distracted. This place is so beautiful.”
“I know.
“In the Library of Congress? Oh, sure. No problem. There’s only miles and miles of books under our feet and some of the rarest books in the world all around us … Are you out of your mind?”
I grabbed her cigarettes and stuck them in my purse.
“All right, all right.” She sounded peeved. “Well, I need something.”
I thought of Ali Jennings, who probably had the something she needed.
