Rare Objects (14 page)

Without a word the driver opened the door and offered me a gloved hand. I stepped out onto the gravel drive and the sea air whipped round me, bracing, briny, and electric. We were so far away from the ashen factory smoke, oily coal dust, and damp fog that rolled in from the harbor to engulf Boston. Beyond the house was a pilgrim's view of unspoiled coastline; black water dissolved into the vast expanse of gray-pink horizon. Sea gulls circled above, their shrill cries echoing forlornly against the distant roar of the waves thundering against the rocky cliffs below. The place seemed to have its own clearer, rarified atmosphere.

The house had a wide terrace, and the grounds a particular, barren, windswept beauty, the rolling lawns populated by giant chestnut trees, their massive branches raised like ancient arms toward the heavens, twisted by time and the elements.

The front door opened. A gentleman waited on the threshold; behind him the white marble entrance was lit by a dazzling crystal chandelier. I followed the driver up the front steps. He handed the crate to the man, and I stepped aside.

“Miss Fanning?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Mr. Abbott, Mrs. Van der Laar's secretary. Will you kindly follow me, please?”

He led me into a room that was easily the size of the entire ground floor of the public library. Flames flickered in two great marble fireplaces, and settees, ottomans, and armchairs were clustered on four massive oriental carpets.

Mr. Abbott put the crate down on one of the low ottomans. “If you would like to make yourself comfortable, Mr. Kimberly will be with you in a moment.”

“Mr. Kimberly?” I didn't want to stay; I just wanted to get the check and leave.

“He oversees all of the acquisitions in Mrs. Van der Laar's collection. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

Mr. Abbott left, and I sat gingerly at the edge of one of the armchairs, my handbag on my lap. The room was sweetly scented; a vase of pink hothouse lilies, each as big as a man's hand, were arranged on a table at its center. Somewhere a door opened; I heard music and laughter. It closed again, and the noise died.

I'd wondered who Mr. Kessler's clients were. Who was wealthy enough to spend $100 on a silver trinket or $500 on a desk? Now here I was, sitting in a room that held more fine pieces than the whole of Mr. Kessler's shop put together. And it was only one room of many.

Then a terrifying thought occurred to me. What if these people thought I was an expert, too? What if someone asked me a question or expected me to value something?

I looked around in a panic, racking my brain to remember all of Mr. Kessler's lessons. Those chairs were French, weren't they? But what were they called?
Fauteuils
or
bergères
? And the table in the center of the room—was that cherry or mahogany? My hand felt for the ring in my pocket, twisting it nervously between my fingers.

Suddenly a strange face blinked back at me, and my heart stopped. Then I realized, with a pathetic sense of relief, that the blonde in the overmantel was me.

As I stared back at myself in the reflected grandeur of the room, I remembered what Mr. Kessler had told me: a good counterfeit is as much a work of art as the real thing.

“Good evening.”

I turned. It was the same gentleman who'd visited the shop, but now he was followed by a second man dressed in a dinner jacket and tie, clearly in the middle of entertaining.

“I'm Philip Kimberly,” the first man said, closing the door.

“May Fanning, sir. From Winshaw and Kessler.”

The man behind Mr. Kimberly stepped forward, hands in his pockets. His hair was dark and wavy, his features strong and uneven, and he had unusually clear, seemingly transparent blue eyes. He had an easy, gracious manner that could only come from ownership and there was an audacity in his gaze, a confidence and directness that was both intriguing and unnerving.

“James Van der Laar,” he introduced himself, with a slightly apologetic grin, as if just saying his name was a trump card played too early in the game. “I believe you have something for me.”

“It's just here.” I walked over to the crate, and the two men followed.

“Allow me.” Mr. Kimberly lifted the lid, took out the vase, and handed it to Mr. Van der Laar.

The glossy black surface of the vase reflected the darting flames in the fireplace, and for a fleeting moment the old adage about Nero fiddling as Rome burned came to mind.

The flames were also captured in the black orbits of Mr. Van der Laar's eyes. He stared at it for a while, almost as if he were memorizing each detail, before putting it down on the wide marble mantelpiece.

“You say that's the finest one you can find?” He didn't sound convinced.

“Oh, yes!” Mr. Kimberly assured him. “The finest example we'll see available on the market again for another four generations.”

Then Mr. Kimberly took out the plate.

“Yes, see!” He smiled, handing it to Mr. Van der Laar. “Now, this is without equal!”

Mr. Van der Laar held it up, frowning a little like someone trying to work out a puzzle. “It's plainer than I thought it would be.”

“Simplicity is the hallmark of the Harrow Painter. It's what makes these pieces so elegant. The integrity of the line is exquisite.”

“I'm not concerned with elegance. It has to be superior.”

“Oh, but this is! These are first-rate. Here is proof, if proof were needed, of the golden age!”

Mr. Van der Laar gave a disparaging laugh. “You and your golden age! The only age I care about is the one I'm in now.”

Mr. Kimberly clearly wasn't a man who took kindly to being dismissed. The skin on the back of his neck flushed red, and his ears turned pink. He caught my eye, and I quickly looked away. But now I'd suddenly appeared on the horizon of his notice, if only as a suitable outlet for his irritation. He turned on me. “Do you even have any idea what we're talking about, Miss Fanning?”

I looked up, startled. “I'm sorry?”

“The golden age.” His voice was icy with condescension. “Have you even heard of it?”

In my pocket, I felt for the ring. “I believe the golden age refers to a time long gone when mankind lived without difficulty or strife. Almost like gods. Or at least, that's the legend in Greek mythology,” I managed.

He blinked, pursed his lips together.

“
Et in Arcadia ego
,” he said, tilting his chin down to see my reaction. My insolence had earned me another challenge.

I'd never studied languages. “Pardon me?”

“
Et in Arcadia ego
,” he repeated, savoring my ignorance.

I could feel Mr. Van der Laar watching me too.

Firelight flickered across the plate in his hands. The image of the boy on the rooster seemed to be laughing at me.

Luckily years of listening to mass in Latin had taught me at least a little. “Even in Arcadia, there I am,” I translated roughly.

“Yes.” Mr. Kimberly awarded me a terse smile. “Death triumphs over everything.”

He turned his attention back to Mr. Van der Laar, but Mr. Van der Laar was still looking at me, an expectant expression on his face, almost as if he were silently goading me on.

“But does it?” I asked.

Kimberly hadn't expected me to challenge him; the smile faded.

I pointed at the plate. “Death hasn't conquered this. Here we are, centuries later, wondering at the aesthetic perfection of a lost age. Who of us doesn't long for such immortality?”

Mr. Van der Laar chuckled. “She's right, Kimberly. Isn't that why we collect beautiful things—to cheat death?”

Suddenly the door opened; a swell of music and laughter filled the room. “There you are! I've been looking everywhere! We're all waiting for you!”

I knew that voice. I turned.

A striking young woman was leaning against the doorframe in an emerald-green silk gown, a low V neckline exposing the smooth white skin of her long neck. Her dark hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed, as if she'd been laughing, chased or teased into a state of breathless exhaustion; in her hand she held an empty champagne glass, and around her neck was a string of faultless pearls.

I couldn't take my eyes off her.

It was the girl from the far ward.

My confidence vanished. I had to get out of here, quickly, or risk being unmasked.

But before I could do anything, an older woman came up behind the girl. Thousands of jet beads sparkled on her evening gown as she swept past her into the room. “So are they worth all the fuss?” Her hair was iron gray, worn back from her face, and she had the same unusual blue eyes that both Mr. Van der Laar and the girl shared. Her voice was accented, but it wasn't an accent that I recognized. It was like German, but softer, less guttural.

“They're perfect,” Mr. Kimberly assured her, crossing to her side. “In fact, they're without question the finest I've ever seen.”

“I should hope so, at that price. Show me,” she demanded.

The girl spotted the crate. “What's going on? What are those?”

Mr. Kimberly held up the vase.

“Is that it?” The woman was disappointed. “It's not very big!”

“It's not the size, it's the condition.” Mr. Van der Laar put the vase down on the table.

“But I have hats bigger than those!”

“I'm sorry, Mother, but unfortunately the Elgin Marbles are taken,” he replied.

“They will be the centerpiece of the collection,” Mr. Kimberly promised. “A world-class collection that will attract international acclaim.”

“Oh, I see!” The girl smiled conspiratorially, pushing the door closed. “We're playing patron of the arts again—our name on yet another brass plaque. Do we get a prize when we reach a hundred?”

“I wouldn't be so flippant if I were you,” the woman countered. “It's your name that going to be on it!”

Her face fell. “Mine? What's all this got to do with me?”

“You're the benefactor.” Mr. Van der Laar's tone was matter-of-fact. “It's time you pulled your weight in the family too.”

“This is an important public legacy.” Mr. Kimberly tried to make the proposition sound more attractive. “You'll be contributing a significant cultural endowment to the city of Boston.”

“Oh, I'm certain that's just what people need!” the girl scoffed. “Another bloody vase! So lazy of them to spend their days waiting in breadlines when they could be going to the museum!”

“It's more than that. It's about setting an example; giving people something to aspire to,” Mr. Kimberly told her. “We who can have a duty to educate and enrich the lives of others.”

“And who are ‘we' exactly, to educate anyone?”

“Don't be stupid!” The older woman sighed. “You're a very lucky girl. I don't know why you insist on making everything so difficult!”

But the girl wasn't listening.

She'd spotted me.

I picked up my handbag. “I really should be going, sir.”

The older woman swiveled round, looking me up and down as if I'd only just manifested out of the blue. “And you are?”

“This is Miss Fanning, from Winshaw and Kessler,” Mr. Kimberly said, to introduce me. “Miss Fanning has been good enough to deliver these at this late hour. Miss Fanning, may I introduce you to Mrs. Van der Laar and her daughter, Diana.”

“Oh, yes! I
have
seen you before!” Suddenly Diana grabbed my arm. “Yes . . . I remember now! I
knew
I recognized you!”

“You know each other?” Mr. Van der Laar looked faintly appalled.

“I sometimes go to the lectures at the Athenaeum,” I said quickly, trying to ease my arm away from Diana's grip. “Perhaps we've met there?”

Something changed in Diana's face. “You know,” she said slowly, “I think that must be it. They're so informative, don't you find?”

“You've never been to a lecture in your life!” Her mother dismissed the idea. “I doubt you've even read a book!”

“Lovely to see you again.” I inched toward the door.

“Oh, no! Wait!” Diana was surprisingly tenacious. “It wasn't the Athenaeum. I know where it was! It was Marblehead, wasn't it? Weren't you on Nicky Howerd's yacht last July?”

I blinked at her. “I . . . ah . . . Nicky?”

Mrs. Van der Laar turned. “You know Nicky?”

“Oh yes!” Diana gave my arm an affectionate squeeze. “Pinky Cabot Lowell was there as well, and weren't you completely monopolized by Johnny Coolidge? I remember how we all struggled with those lobsters! It was a lobster bake,” she explained. “We had to crack them open ourselves and dig out the meat with our fingers!”

“How revolting!” Her mother shuddered.

“I think you were the only one who managed it!” Diana laughed.

“The Howerds always have dreadful food. It's a point of pride with them.” Mrs. Van der Laar looked me up and down. “Who are your people?”

“My people?” Suddenly I was in quicksand, sinking fast.

“Let me guess.” Mr. Van der Laar held up his hand. “With your fair hair you must be Nordic or German. Am I right?”

“I'm . . . well, the truth is . . .”

“Yes?” Diana seemed to be enjoying herself, a gleam of mischief in her eye.

“Well, actually”—I straightened—“I'm from Albany. I'm in town visiting family.”

“And you're
working
?” Mrs. Van der Laar made it sound as if I were standing on a street corner in a bad part of town.

“Actually, the shop is owned by a friend of the family. Mr. Winshaw is a highly respected archaeologist. He's away right now, on an important expedition, and they needed someone to lend a hand.”

“Young women today!” Mrs. Van der Laar rolled her eyes. “I can't imagine what you're all thinking of!”

“Some say working builds character,” Diana told her.