The Big Steal (17 page)

Finding Hoyt was like a miracle. What was there not to love about him? He was a gentleman. He was perfect. I wanted to be like him. To lead his kind of life. To be a Virginia lady.

 

Mazie had drawn a thin fountain pen line through her last sentence. Rewritten, it read, “To be a lady from Virginia.” It did sound much more elegant.

Now I
was
puzzled. Hadn't Mazie been born a lady? Of course she had, it was obvious from her writings. My mind
raced back to what I had heard about Mazie Wyndfield. That first night Worth Merritt, speaking of Hoyt and Mazie's differences, he called Mazie vivacious and lovely. The sweet ramblings of Mazie's diary were certainly consistent with his description. What was the distinction between being a lady, and being a lady from Virginia? I guess it had to do with refinement. Why Miss Mary Sophie had just bemoaned the loss of refinement in today's world. Gentility, poise, grace—those characteristics that define refinement—these were all part of the image of the early mistresses of the Virginia plantations. But that didn't mean a lady couldn't be lively and captivating. What was that quote about Virginia women? Ah … “The Virginia women are tall, and slender, and have much more personality than other American Women.” That's how the Frenchman Ferdinand Bayard had described Virginia ladies back in the eighteenth century.

I recalled that Miss Mary Sophie had also said that Mazie and Hoyt had lived a life filled with too many lies. Perhaps because Miss Mary Sophie had spoken so kindly of Hoyt, yet said little about Mazie, I had taken her remark to be about Mazie.

But had anyone ever said anything
really
disparaging about Mazie? Where had I gotten the impression that Wynderly was all
her
doing? When Worth had said that sugarcane oozed out of Mazie's very pores, he hadn't said it in a critical way. It had made her sound fetching.

Really, the strongest image I had of Mazie had come from Michelle Hendrix. “A princess,” Michelle had called her, “a princess—born and bred.” Laboring under my less than favorable early impression of Michelle, I had naturally put the
worst spin on her words. That must have been the source of my negative impression of Mazie. How wrong I had been.

Or, perhaps knowing Mazie was from Louisiana, a place so very different from Virginia, had led me to that impression. Or might it have been Wynderly itself?

 

Why Hoyt wants to turn his back on his Virginia ways is beyond me. I love Wynderly, but not for its showiness and flamboyance, because
that
is what it is, a place to show off where we've been and what we've bought. I love Wynderly because it is our
home
and Hoyt loves it so. I would be quite content if we never went to another place or bought another thing, but I wouldn't tell him so. He has his pride. I would have been so happy to have a less pretentious place, one of the lovely stately brick homes all around us. That had been my dream. But then, not all of our dreams can come true.

 

There, at the end of the page, Mazie's entry stopped. To my disappointment, the next few pages were totally unlike the others I had read. She wrote of upcoming trips and rearranging the furniture in the breakfast room to accommodate a new set of chairs, which I had paused over, hoping to learn more about the chairs themselves. Instead, I read,

 

I am trying to be better about my record-keeping. Hoyt is so meticulous in his bookkeeping. He spends hours at night bent over figures the way a gambler does over a card hand. He says that every time he buys something new for the house he makes note of it, how much it cost, and checks it against how much the old one had cost. I can't imagine being interested in such things! Thank goodness he takes care of the finances. But I'm
going to start keeping track of the gardens. That should please him.

 

The following pages were filled with notes about some new species of trees and roses and an exquisite description of seeing three sprays of orchids simultaneously in full bloom in the greenhouse. One entry about selecting an artist to paint Mazie's portrait did catch my attention, but no artists were named so I moved on.

As I neared the back of the book, a sense of dread fell over me. Was I going to have to make yet another trip up into the attic, retrace my steps into that forlorn black pit and literally pray that I would find other, later volumes? Mazie's world had so mesmerized me that I had forgotten about all else. Only two or three more diaries remained among the papers and photographs spread out around me on the bed. I grabbed one up.

 

May 14, 1955. Hoyt hasn't been feeling well for the past few days. I do hope it isn't anything serious. He tells me that if his heart gives out it will be because he has used it up loving me. I tell him that if his heart gives out it is because he is racing around too much for a man of sixty-five.

I've never seen a man hate to slow down as much as he does. When we came back from Europe the last time, I told him it wasn't necessary to book another trip, but oh, no. We were no more home than the conversation was the same old thing, all over again. Why we must go back to Vichy and on to Thiers and then on to Lyon, I do not understand. Nor do I know why he must continue his trips to Brazil alone. Now that Whitey's son has taken over the tobacco business it really
isn't necessary for Hoyt to make these trips. Yet he has one planned for this fall. Every time he comes back from Brazil, once he is rested, then it is off to New York or London, but that's fun because I usually go with him to those places. And oh! that surprise piece of jewelry I always find under my pillow while we are there delights me. I would enjoy it if he would take me to Tiffany's, or Asprey's when we're in London, but Hoyt always says he knows where there are better deals. I don't dare complain.

I'm still hoping he will bring his Brazilian friend Felipe to see us. Whenever Hoyt talks about him, all I can imagine is Errol Flynn. Felipe must have been quite a swashbuckler when he was young. Imagine finding whole pockets of precious gemstones in the mountains of Brazil! He must be very rich. Of course Hoyt loves Brazil with so many friends and memories.

But ah, when I raise the question of why the need for all these trips now that he is older, Hoyt laughs and says he has to keep up with me. That's foolishness. He knows I am never happier than when we are home at Wynderly, and Lord knows I have never looked at another man since first laying eyes on him.

In the secret chambers of my own heart I sometimes wonder if he is wearing out, not from loving me, not even from insisting on continuing to race through life, but for the life he has lived.

 

I stopped dead in my tracks. 1955. We forget in these days of longevity that sixty-five years old was much older then than now, especially for those with heart conditions. That thought
aside, I turned back to Mazie's words. “But for the life he has lived,” I read over and over.

What had transpired in the thirty years between the young Mazie's romantic musings and these much darker, more solemn words? There was little question of Mazie's genuine and lasting love for her husband. How sad that they had never had any children, I thought offhandedly. I stuck a Post-it on the page, laid the book to one side, and picked up another one in hopes that it would fill in the gaps of those other years. I clasped the unopened book in my hands and pressed it hard, as if it could magically speak to me, surrendering the mysteries of so many years. As suddenly as I had grasped Mazie's book, I released it.

Where was this all leading? Why was I bothering, and what, dear Lord, did this have to do with why I was here in the first place? The corner of a single piece of paper caught my eye as the book fell onto my lap. It was way past midnight. No wonder my patience was running short and my eyes were beginning to cross. I needed to get some sleep before becoming more frustrated by the hints and morsels. I picked the book back up and opened it to slip the paper back in place. I also made the mistake of glancing at it:

“Edouardo Ziegler. Ouro Preto, Brasil.”

Ouro Preto had been one of my favorite places ever since Hank and I had gone there, two, no, three times when we had gone to Brazil with his family on combination business and pleasure trips in the late 1980s. Ouro Preto had once been a favorite resort for European travelers, but these days few people have even heard of the charming village tucked away in the mountain region of Minas Gerais. As suddenly as my tiredness
had come upon me, it faded. And when I saw the page was a listing of English Staffordshire dog figurines, I bolted straight up. Gemstones, santos and crucifixes, soapstone carvings—those you found in Ouro Preto, Brazil. Not nineteenth-century English Staffordshire dogs.

Dear Antiques Expert: When we were in Europe I noticed many grand houses had fireplace benches in them, but I can't recall seeing these in Colonial homes in America even though the early homes were warmed with fireplaces. Why would this be?

What a perceptive observation. Though our finest 18th-century American homes were quite grand, they couldn't compare to Europe and England's majestic homes with huge banquet halls and reception rooms. In Colonial America, usually a table that could be used for tea, card games, or even business, was placed in front of the fireplace, rather than a bench where just one or two people could sit. Eventually, when America's “castles” copying the European style—homes such as Biltmore, the Breakers, and San Simeon—were built at the turn of the century, fireplace benches became fashionable over here.

T
HE SPLITTING HEADACHE
I had the next morning was a reminder that I should not have stayed up so late reading Mazie's diary. Or at least that's what I told myself driving to Wynderly half an hour later than I should have. I didn't even try to rush
to get there on time. In fact, when I turned into the driveway leading up to the mansion, I slowed down.

What if, at the end of the lane, instead of rambling high-walled turrets and castle-like towers there had been built a house in the Colonial tradition, restrained and elegant, with perfectly balanced proportions—the house Mazie had spoken of wanting? Would it have been more welcoming, less off-putting than Wynderly, I wondered. But she had also said she was never happier than when she and Hoyt were at home, at Wynderly —

Only when a squirrel ran across my path, did I realize I had slowed to a crawl. I veered as far to the right as I could without brushing against the undergrowth then sped up.

There, lining the driveway in front of Wynderly were parked so many long black cars that I thought either the antiques big boys had finally arrived, or someone must have died. The smell of money was in the air.

Michelle Hendrix rushed out the door toward me. “Thank God you're here,” she said. She was wringing her hands the way I remembered my grandmother doing, and like my grandmother, Michelle looked old beyond her years. “They didn't even call first,” she said.

“Who?” I asked, closing the car door.

“
Them
. The men from the bank. And Dr. Houseman isn't with them.”

“Why are
they
here? Is, ah …” I couldn't remember the banker's name I'd met at the board meeting. I could see him in his gray, custom-tailored banker's suit, but his name? “You know, the board member from the bank. Is he with them?”

“Graham. Frederick Graham. He's the ringleader.”

Taken aback, I asked, “So, what does
he
say,” all the while rushing to keep up with Michelle's long strides toward the house. It had begun to spit something, sleet maybe, or a little snow. Michelle was muttering something about packing things up, which made no sense.

It was too late. Graham, himself, opened the door.

He quickly nodded in my direction. “Look,” he said, addressing Michelle, his voice brusque. “The bank's held out on collecting on the loan long enough. It's time we take possession of what's rightfully ours.” I had the feeling he was finishing a conversation that had been interrupted when she'd run out to intercept me.

I tried frantically to recall exactly the discussion at the board meeting about the bank not giving the foundation any more money. As best I could remember, nothing had been said that jibed with Graham's comment about things at Wynderly being “rightfully ours.” But it fit like a glove around Michelle's comments of last night.

“If you could give me a minute to take off my coat, Mr. Graham—”

“Call me Frederick. And forgive me, I didn't mean to ignore you. I've got a conference call coming in later this morning, but it seemed important to move on this matter now. That's why we're here and in such a rush.” He helped me with my coat, folded it over his arm, and gestured toward the drawing room. “Not sure how comfortable the chairs are, but …” he said more calmly as he ushered me across the hallway and into the room.

After having read Mazie's diary, it was as if I had never walked these halls before. I entered the room and saw it
through different eyes. In the silver gilt mirror above the mantel I glimpsed Mazie's image. She was smoothing her long hair. Or was she fluffing her bob after it was cut? She glowed in the reflected light cast from the twin chandeliers as she waited for Hoyt to join her before their guests arrived. Wynderly no longer seemed so distastefully over the top. As if by magic, the house had become lively and vibrant, and I seemed to have fallen under its spell. But now was not the time for such thoughts.

Graham laid my coat across the needlepoint fireplace bench. I seated myself, pulled myself together, and spoke.

“I totally understand about your morning, and I'll try not to take up much time, but what you said … well, it sounded as if you'll be taking things from the house.” I hesitated. “It seems to me, Mr. Graham, that Babson and Michael has a vested interest in these items, too, at least some of them. I'm not sure what the legalities are, but I need to know what's going on. What pieces are you talking about? I need time to finish the appraisal. In fact, I'm not at all sure I can complete the appraisal if things are taken away.”