“Can we not talk about Him?” The mention of God evoked thoughts of eternity, and thoughts of eternity were irrevocably entwined with my thoughts about Peter. If I had ever bothered to have an honest discussion with him about God; if I had ever bothered to challenge his atheistic beliefs, then thinking about eternity wouldn’t cause such guilt. But I hadn’t; so it did. There were many ways to deal with grief, and I had tried most of them, but so far, I had found nothing to help me deal with guilt. And instead of diminishing over time, its burden had only increased.
Cranwell’s eyes registered disappointment.
“Don’t get me wrong, I know all about Him. I grew up going to church. I just don’t approve of Him.” I hoped I didn’t sound too defensive; Cranwell would never understand the dialogue I wasn’t having with God.
“Because of your husband?”
“Because of lots of things. Anyway, I’m going to put a bottle of champagne in the fridge. When you finish that last draft, let me know and we’ll pop it open.”
“Thanks.” Cranwell got up from his stool and stretched toward the ceiling; mid-stretch, he asked if I had any armagnac.
Did I have armagnac? Any chef worth his toque would be humiliated to be discovered without armagnac.
“If I don’t have something to help all this food digest, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”
“We can’t have that.” I poured out two large snifters.
“Can we have these in the library?”
Shrugging, I lifted an eyebrow in surprise. I had my own lounge on the fourth floor, so I’d never thought of using the library as one, although it made sense. It was cozy enough.
He ambled to the stairs, and I followed him to the entrance hall and then up the central stairs to the third floor.
In the library there are several floor lamps and a lamp on the large table that serves as a desk. I had decided during renovation that they would be more intimate than a huge chandelier.
Cranwell stopped me as I walked around the room turning on the lights. “Let’s have a fire instead.”
Backtracking, I turned off the lamps and then settled into a leather armchair, kicking off my shoes, and tucking my feet beneath me.
Cranwell arranged the firewood. I saw the flare of the match light his face. The fire caught, and the room began to glow with light.
Looking around at the rich red oriental carpet, the walls lined from floor to ceiling with books and the Louis XVI leather upholstered
Cranwell sat across from me, stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. He took a sip of armagnac and savored it.
Mirroring him, I felt the slow awakening of taste in my mouth. I let the sip kindle my tastebuds and then I swallowed it, felt the pleasant burn that trailed into my stomach. I held the snifter in the palm of my hand, letting the liquid absorb my warmth.
Cranwell caught my eye. “What would this room have been used for?”
“In Alix’s time? A bedroom or drawing room. Might have been used to store books, but there probably would not have been nearly as many. Books were worth a fortune. Even an avid reader might only own twenty or thirty in a lifetime. It was kings and princes who had the money to collect them.”
“What would they have been reading?” It must have been rhetorical. Cranwell’s eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the fire.
I’d lost him.
Frankly, I had begun to feel ignored. It was surprising how Cranwell had started to grow on me. I missed his undivided attention even as I understood the reason for his introspection.
Not wanting to disturb him, I relaxed into my chair, sipped my armagnac, letting my own thoughts wander. My eyes swept the bookcases that surrounded me, many of them lined with books I considered to be old friends. Some books I read on an annual basis and found as much pleasure in them as the first time I discovered them. Some were reference books. A set of encyclopedias that I used when I was in grade school. At least three dictionaries. Books on history. Atlases. Two entire cases filled with books on political science and government, beloved by Peter. He had always read ravenously, two or three books at a time. There were classics, of both ancient and modern times. Biographies. Autobiographies. The only section absent was my cookbook collection. I kept it down in the kitchen so it would be close at hand.
Taking another sip, I got up and walked toward my favorite bookcase: the one filled with rare and ancient books. The temperature in the chateau stayed relatively constant, so I could afford to keep these books on shelves rather than in glass cases. I hadn’t dared read many. Just cracking open their covers and flipping through the pages was luxury enough. Some were so old they were written in Latin. Others in old English and French. Some even dated back to Alix’s time. They were my birthday and Christmas gifts to myself.
“Cranwell, you might be interested in these.”
He started in his chair. I’d disturbed his reverie, but he walked to my side, snifter in hand.
“These are from Alix’s period.” I waved a hand at a shelf’s selection of books. “They’re in French, so I don’t think that you could understand them, but if they’ll help you, you’re welcome to them.” This part of my library, I had arranged in chronological order; the other bookcases were arranged by subject and by height, but this section was my treasure. I ran a finger along the shelf in front of the books. I never touched them gratuitously. They were too valuable. I recited their dates for Cranwell.
“1352. 1365. 1380. 1412. 1430. 1433. 1451. 14-.” I stopped, confused. The book I was referencing
“Is something wrong?”
It was when I began again, purposely matching titles with the dates, that I found it. There was a gap between 1412 and 1430. I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. “One of my books is gone.”
“Maybe you reshelved it in the wrong place.”
“I don’t take these books from the shelf. The last time I touched that book was when I first put it there, about three years ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“What kind of book was it?”
“It was a book found during the renovation of my room.” The only book on that shelf I had not bought. “It was a Book of Hours.”
He looked at me blankly.
“A medieval book of devotions. It was illuminated. Illustrated.”
“Why would anyone want to steal it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Maybe Severine borrowed it.”
“It predates Alix by a generation. Her research is specifically tied to Alix. It wouldn’t be of interest to her. Besides, I invited her to use anything that I have. She looked at the shelf, but shrugged me off. She said there was nothing here that pertained to her work.”
Someone must have taken it during the
Cranwell was looking at the shelf, but his eyes were focused on a point beyond it. “What would your room have been used for again?”
“A servant’s room. Probably a servant with some status. The lord or lady’s personal servant.”
I drank the rest of my armagnac and glanced once more around the room.
The peace had vanished.
The last days of the month provided a warmth I would have expected from July. An
