“Wow!” Arch exclaimed. “They’ve done a lot since the sixth grade came here for a tour.” He craned his neck to gaze up at the arched ceiling of the gatehouse. “Check it out, Mom, those things haven’t changed.” He pointed upward. “Meurtriers. Otherwise known as murder holes.”
“What?” Overhead, at the intersection of each arch, holes pierced the ceiling.
“You see,” my son went on, “even if the enemy could get across the moat and through whatever barbican or outer defense was set up, they’d still have to get through the gatehouse.” He pointed back at the entry portcullis. “So if the attackers rammed the portcullis to get into this space, the castle’s warriors poured boiling oil down on the bad guys through those holes.” He announced this with a fourteen-year-old’s relish for
violence.
“Let’s go,” I said hastily, as Sukie disappeared through another pair of glass doors. I preferred to associate boiling oil with doughnuts and French fries, thank you very much.
Now twenty steps ahead of us, Sukie was either turning off another security system or rejiggering a thermostat. I shuddered to think of the electric bills generated by heating and lighting these vast spaces. I hated even more thinking how to tell Sukie and Eliot that their security system might have to withstand a visit from the Jerk.
Arch tugged on my elbow. “How many times have you been here?” he demanded, his voice just above a murmur. “Did she talk to you about the… earl’s nephew?” Ever wary of being dubbed a wimp, Arch was reluctant to use the word ghost.
“I’ve been here once, and nobody talked to me about spirits,” I whispered back. “At some point, you can ask the Hydes about it. Just not today, okay?”
He frowned, but joined me in following Sukie as she bustled down a dazzling rose-and-gray marble hallway. The marble, too, was from Colorado, Sukie had told me, and had been picked out by Charde Lauderdale as the basis for the interior color scheme. Flickering electrified candles atop gleaming brass wall sconces lit our way as we walked down a plush carpet runway patterned with gold medallions on a royal-blue background. Arch stopped to touch one of the reproduction leaded-glass windows. Then he eyed a threadbare tapestry depicting a maiden patting her unicorn.
“Do you think the Hydes will let Dad visit?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Probably you’ll go to his place, once we get things worked out.”
Arch was silent. I looked around. On our right, a twentieth-century spiral staircase led up to a doorway into the gatehouse, put there, Eliot had told me, by his thoughtful grandfather. Old Theodore did not want his caretakers traversing the cold stone entryway to get to their apartment, once they finished nighttime kitchen duty. Personally, I would have preferred an escalator.
Ahead of us, Sukie swept through more glass doors beneath another archway. The doors opened into the living room. But on my tea-visit, “living” in this room had seemed unimaginable. The room looked more like the lobby of a grand hotel than a place where people would actually snuggle down for conversation or reading. The vast space featured a polished dark wood floor covered by Oriental rugs in rich hues of scarlet, royal blue, and gold. Couches and wingback chairs upholstered in floral and paisley chintz, the shades chosen to match the rugs, sat beside massive antique tables of mahogany and cherry. The effect was impressive. No matter what else you said about Charde Lauderdale, the woman knew what she was doing in the decorating department.
Our boots made a shh-shh noise as we shuffled over the sumptuous carpets. I touched the cellular in my pocket. The moment we were situated, I promised myself, I would call Tom’s hotel.
“You’re a member of the fencing team, right, Arch?” Sukie trilled over her shoulder. “When your teammates come to our banquet this week, you’ll be able to show them around. We have an indoor pool, now, on the ground floor west of the postern gate, if you want to go for a swim.”
Arch mumbled, “Okay.” He hated to swim. He said, “Miss Kirovsky has been telling us about her collection of royal memorabilia. I’d really like to see that.”
I exhaled. At least he hadn’t requested an interview with the phantom of the young duke-apparent.
“Then ask her, my dear,” Sukie replied graciously as she paused by one of the glass doors. “And perhaps Michaela could take you to school today, after she unloads your mother’s equipment.”
I felt a tad confused, as I hadn’t realized that Michaela was regarded as a general servant in addition to caretaker and local fencing coach. But it was too early in the day to delve into the particulars of the Hydes’ household arrangements.
While Sukie held open the door, Arch turned to me and asked softly, “How will Dad even know I’m here?”
“I’ll call the county lawyer, all right?” I was not about to call John Richard’s attorney, that pompous nerd responsible for mailing child support payments from John Richard’s fat hoard of cash, the result of the sale of his ob-gyn practice. Dealing with the Jerk’s attorney was like being forced to eat … well, that historic but unappetizing food: pottage. It was not something I chose to do.
A hint of desperation threaded through Arch’s voice. “Look, Mom, I know you don’t want to see Dad. But I promised him we could get together as soon as he got out. It’s what he said he wanted more than anything. So could you please find him? Please?”
“I told you I would, hon. Just not this sec, okay?” Sukie waited politely until my son and I had finished our whispered conference. In tense silence, we went through yet another set of glass doors, which Sukie said they had installed as insulation against the cold. The need for insulation quickly became evident when we entered the tower. An arctic blast made us all pull our coats tightly around us.
Unlike the hallway, the corner drum tower was not newly lined with marble. Frigid air poured through slits in the gray stone - more narrow openings used by archers.
Sukie pointed to a smaller, covered stone cylinder on the tower floor. “This was the castle’s original well, Arch. Do you know why they placed the well inside the castle, instead of outside?”
I knew she was trying to be nice, to make Arch feel welcome. I was not sure it was working. Arch frowned, as if deciding whether to indulge Sukie with an answer.
“Actually,” he said finally, his voice raised over another sudden cold wind. “I do know about castle wells. People living in the castle had to have their water supply inside the fortress walls, in the event of siege. They didn’t want the enemy poisoning their drinking supply. Do you use it for the castle’s water?”
“Oh, no,” Sukie answered, apparently delighted with his interest. “Eliot’s grandfather had a new water system put in, and Eliot’s father used insurance money to get the whole plumbing system upgraded, after Fox Creek flooded in
‘82.”
She gestured for us to go through the door she’d opened to the next large space, the dining room. Here, the walls had been painted a creamy yellow, which was the perfect complement for the lime, pink, and cream Persian rug, walnut dining-room table and chairs, and large matching buffet and glass-fronted wine cabinet, one of the two places Eliot kept his jam supply. No doubt, this furniture was also gen-yoo-ine antique, the kind Tom, but not I, could have dated and placed.
“And this is the buttery, Arch,” Sukie explained. “Or at least it used to be. Bottles of ale were kept here. The wine cellar was underneath. Next door to the buttery was the stillroom, where they made preserves, and next to that was a bedroom. We combined all three rooms for the dining room and kitchen. Eliot makes his jams in the kitchen, since the stillroom is kaput. Wait until you taste his goodies. Your mother loved them.”
“I did indeed,” I murmured, as we entered the kitchen. I had been in this grand cooking-and-serving space on my earlier visit. Four electrified chandeliers provided the lighting. Glass-fronted maple cupboards with painted porcelain handles rose above a shiny backsplash of blue-and-white Delft tiles. A maple corner cupboard was also crammed with jars of preserves. Overhead, an immense, hook-studded iron rack hung from the ceiling. From each hook dangled a darkened pot or roasting pan, some of them massive enough to roast a flock of geese. One wall boasted framed photos and reproduction signs from English taverns. Along the other wall, cozy embers glowed in one of the two stone hearths. In spite of the flickering electrified candles, shadows filled the kitchen’s corners like smoke.
Arch’s insistent voice cracked next to my ear. “I have to get ready for school. Now, Mom.”
“I’m sure we’ll be going to a place where you can change in a minute,” I said quickly, feeling my irritation flare. But he was right. Sukie’s leisurely early-morning guided tour of her castle was getting on my nerves, too.
