genetic risk that poses is a moot point.They have no offspring.
“The electricity just went off,”Susan announces.“And once again we are plunged into shit.”
“I don’t know why we don’t have a generator,”Susan adds.
“I’m working on it,”says Ferguson.“Sit down, Susan.Look at all this snow.You may never see anything like this again.We are really in for it.
This happened before, in1934,and it was a complete disaster.”
“I was hoping to bathe,”Susan says.“And I was also hoping to make some progress in organizing the library.”Eight Chimneys’state ofdisre-pair has come to irritate Susan, and, lately, imposing some order on it has become a virtual obsession.She simply cannot take it any longer.What had once seemed like a charming, funky casualness, a kind ofstylish nose-thumbing at all ofthose blue bloods who once occupied these rooms, now strikes her as a kind ofhell, an inferno ofshattered sconces, peeling wallpaper, cracked plaster, stained ceilings, threadbare carpets, broken windows, knobless doors, perilous staircases, inexplicable drafts, grotesque armoires, and heirloom furniture theoretically worth hun-dreds ofthousands ofdollars but in reality worth nothing because no one in his right mind would ever want it.
“I don’t want you to organize the library,”Ferguson says.“I need to go through everything first.”
“What is it exactly that you want to‘go through’?”
“There’s a lot to go through.”
“And in the meanwhile, the disorder is intolerable.”
“You should work on your tolerance, then, Susan.It’s a brand-new world, nothing is ever going to be the way we want it.We have to adapt, wehave to grow, learn, change.Haven’t any ofyour spiritual advisors told you this?”
Susan can no longer tell ifFerguson is speaking his mind or trying to make her lose hers.He likes to play devil’s advocate, which she thinks is the most corrupt, exhausting parody ofreal conversation.
“Who are you waiting for anyhow?”she asks him.“You’ve been out here for an hour.”
“Dan Emerson.He’s going to give us advice about making Eight Chimneys a historic site, and maybe even a museum.”
“Oh yes, Marie’s bright idea.”She looks out at the snow.“He’s probably not coming.”
“He’ll be here.A man like Dan Emerson isn’t going to be pushed around by a few snowflakes.He’s high energy all the way.And I don’t think he’s averse to developing some river clientele.”
“Oh, no one gives a hoot about river people anymore.”
“But I don’t think he knows that.He was raised in our great collective shadow.”
Susan sticks her hand out over the porch railing, the snow melts in her dark, henna-streaked palm.“Maybe the roads are already closed.We can never be sure what’s happening out in the world.We’re stuck away like lunatics in this place.”
“I’m working on it, Susan.Anyhow, look who’s here.”He points toward the west, where a line ofcedars stand like exclamation points.A car is coming toward the house, snow spraying from beneath the tires.
A few minutes later, Ferguson, Susan, and Daniel go into the library, where MarieThorne awaits them.Serene and delicate, she stares sight-lessly out the window.She has luminous long hair, practically to her nar-row little waist, the hair ofa woman not fully in the world.She has been blind since birth.
Daniel has heard about what is going on between Ferguson and Marie—people inWindsor County gossip about the local gentry as if they are royalty, or movie stars.Marie is the daughter ofSkipThorne, a former caretaker at Eight Chimneys, and she was raised right there on the estate.Ferguson has a reputation ofbeing especially drawn to young girls, and it’s also been said that he’d found Marie attractive even when she was eight years old.
She turns when they come in.She has been looking forward to this meeting.Her plan to save Eight Chimneys is her gift to Ferguson;she hopes it will put them on equal footing and allow them one day to have a life together.She is dressed for business, in an oatmeal-colored tweed suit and a strand ofpearls.
“I’m here with Daniel Emerson,”Ferguson says.“The lawyer?”His voice booms without effort, it seems like an unwelcome miracle of acoustics, he opens his mouth and a shout emerges.
“Mr.Emerson.”Marie extends her hand and strides across the library to greet Daniel.She moves easily through rooms she has known her whole life.
“So you want to turn this place into a museum?”Daniel says, as soon as they are seated at the library table.
“Not all ofit!”Susan says, with some alarm.“Not the whole house.”
“We’re thinking ofjust the main floor and the cellar,”says Ferguson.
“And maybe some ofthe land, the property right around the house.”
“And a swath going down to the river,”adds Marie.
”A swath?”says Susan.The word feels vulgar, like“hopefully,”or“be that as it may.”
“Let me give you a little background,”Ferguson says.“You need to understand why we’re considering…”
Susan rises to light the stubs ofcandles in various holders around the room.With unconscious frugality, she tries to light them all with one match.Suddenly the green shaded lamp on the desk flickers on, and a moment after that comes the whine ofthe water pump down below in the cellar coming back to life.
But the respite is momentary.The lamp goes dark again and the pump is still.Ferguson laughs his strange, grating laugh.“It’s a mess, the electric company around here,”says Ferguson.“And it was from the outset.Our un-cle used to be on the board ofdirectors ofWindsor Power.Clare Richmond.
People thought he was a woman.In fact, at one point I had an Uncle Clare and anAunt Michael.Do you rememberAunt Michael?”he says to Susan.
Susan doesn’t like to dwell on the fact that she and her husband are related, however distantly, and she ignores his question.“You can’t cut out a swath ofland, it doesn’t make any sense.”
The snow-filled windows are darkening, and the sudden sound ofa splitting tree is like the deadly bark ofa rifle.Ferguson returns to the sub-ject ofthe museum.He makes something ofa show oftelling Daniel about the financial pressures facing Eight Chimneys.Good professional manners dictate that Daniel take this to be shocking, distressing news, though everyone in the area is fully aware ofthe perpetual peril in which the Richmond estate operates, and even ifDaniel weren’t privy to the lo-cal gossip, one look at the place would tell him all he needed to know.
“Ifwe can’t figure out this money business fairly soon,”Ferguson says,
“this property might very well fall into the hands ofdevelopers and end up as Eight Chimneys Estates, or be turned into a rest home, or a mental hospital.”
“Some people think it already
“Something you said makes me curious,”Daniel says.“You said you wanted to use the main floor and the cellar.”
“Oh, the cellar!”says Marie.She has turned her eyes toward Daniel.
They are bright and somehow thick, like the inside ofoyster shells.“That’s one ofthe most important parts.Do you know the Underground Railroad?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Well, as you know, it wasn’t really a railroad, it was really a whole lot ofhiding places.Like a system ofthem.And the cellar here was part ofit.There are these secret rooms and passageways.Slaves, mostly from Georgia, they were kept there.”
“We’re so lucky to have Marie, aren’t we?”says Susan, turning around.The corners ofher mouth are turned down and her wide-set eyes blaze with anger.“Not only does she come to us with all her knowl-edge ofarts administration, but she knows history, too.”
“They’re for storage now,”Marie says, unfazed.“But we’re going to clean them out and make them like before.You can go down there, ifyou want.You can still feel the spirits ofthe escaped slaves.”
In unison, the four ofthem turn to a clatter ofnoise coming from the hall, and a moment later the library door swings open and two men walk in, one ofthem middle-aged, with a warm, beatific smile, a down vest, and a maroon beret sparkling with snow.He cradles in his arms several brightly printedTibetan silk ceremonial flags.The
