“Sir, Ma’am, this way.” The maid has appeared and beckons us to follow. “The master will receive you in the drawing room.” We descend the staircase and turn into a large room lined with paintings–portraits, landscapes, frolicking lambs. Chairs, tables and couches I would normally think of as antique are positioned around the room, seemingly at random but I’m sure conforming to some classical style. “He’ll be here shortly,” says the maid who curtsies and promptly exits. We wait in silence for what seems like an age. Is the idea to increase the tension? If it is, it’s not needed. I feel sweat on my palms.
A man decked out in eighteenth century silk and satin enters with a smile wider than his face. “Joad,” says Kasper Asmus and he shakes my hand before I have a chance to consider withholding it. He looks more or less as he had looked when he tried to kill me in my Risley home, his eyes maybe even more sunken, his neck more ravaged by gravity, and with no signs of the beating I had given him.
“Kasper,” I say, affecting nonchalance, “we were expecting you.”
“Indeed? And may I have the honor of being introduced to this beautiful lady?”
“This is Jane Galois,” I say.
“Ah, the famous Jane Galois,” he says with a brisk bow. “I’m honored to have you in my little home–both of you.”
I look around me. “Quite a place, Kasper. Seems out of the price range of a tackychemist, though.” Asmus chortles and waves at a waiter in white wig who promptly brings us drinks in crystal glasses on a silver tray.
“English port. No better. It’ll lubricate the path for a very fine meal Mrs. Asmus has chosen for us.” We take our drinks and the waiter bows.
“It’s very good,” says Gallie. I know she’ll have a sense of how to pace this, whereas I’d cannonball-in at the deep end with big questions.
“You’ve picked a nice time of year, no longer too hot and–, ah, my darling wife, Elizabeth,” Asmus says. I look up from my drink and narrowly avoid a spit take when I see who it is. Bess, or her double. I look again to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There’s no mistaking her. It’s Bess. She’s smiling at Gallie then turns to me. After a moment her smile fades into that look of embarrassment that goes with not recognizing someone you should.
“Hello,” I say. She’s not exactly the Bess I last saw. I’m no substitute for Carbon-14 dating but I’d guess she’s maybe somewhere in her forties. Yet her porcelain beauty is undiminished. Asmus sees the discomfort.
“Oh really, you two. Of course you recognize each other. You were at college together.” Bess’s eyes open wide.
“Joad Bevan,” she says. “I’m so sorry.” She walks over and kisses my cheek. I glance at Gallie who’s wearing a frozen smile. “It’s so long ago.” I agree with her and then force my gaze away.
“I’m famished,” Asmus says. “I’ll bet our guests are, too.” He beckons us to follow him. “You know, we could have laid on some fine eighteenth century fare like roasted partridge and turnips, but I thought you’d appreciate a good old steak and fries. Am I right? That sound good?” The words alone cause a cascade of digestive juices. We follow Bess into what must be the dining room. Paintings line the walls and in the room’s center is a long dining table that could have accommodated two dozen guests, but is set at one end for four. We sit and food is served immediately by two white-wigged servants who spoon fries and meat from their platters onto our china plates.
“So, is the past what you expected?” Asmus asks and looks up from his steak for an answer.
“We’ve had a very limited view of it,” replies Gallie. Asmus nods his understanding, deliberately missing her point. My own questions can wait until I’ve shoveled in a few more mouthfuls. Each time I momentarily look up from my eating frenzy Bess is staring at me. For a few minutes the only sound is the clattering of silver on china.
“Don’t eat those plates. They’re expensive,” Asmus jokes and Bess smiles.
I put down my fork and take a deep breath. “What’s going on Kasper?” I ask. He looks at me, affecting bafflement.
“Going on? We’re just old friends sharing a meal, aren’t we?”
“Some older than others,” I say.
“Ouch,” Asmus replies smiling at Bess. It seems like an instant ago that a Kasper Asmus was forcing his stupid papers at me to read, and it’s getting harder for me to connect the two versions of him.
“Why are you here?” I ask. He ponders this.
“That’s a good question. It’s an interesting place in history, don’t you think? Nice to have a first-hand view.”
“Living in a chateau,” Gallie adds. Asmus evaluates her.
“With the entire staff of TMA in your barn,” I add. He raises a finger to a waiter who knows to pour wine, and then with a wave dismisses him. I look behind me to see two of his disheveled guards standing just outside the dining room door, not looking in our direction but obviously ready to act if needed.
“Know much about these times?” he asks.
“The Revolutionary War, you
