The Bookman's Tale (13 page)

T
he annual Ridgefield University Halloween Masquerade was first held in 1958 to celebrate the completion of seven new buildings made possible by the Ridgefield family, in whose honor the school had been renamed. Older members of the faculty murmured that the ball symbolized the fact that the formerly conservative Baptist school had sold out, but they didn’t murmur this very loudly. They liked having spacious faculty lounges, private studies in the new library, and significant increases both in the intelligence of their students and in their own salaries.

Though it was a campuswide event, held in the cavernous and highly decorated gymnasium, Peter had never attended the masquerade. Now Amanda wanted to go for her birthday, and Peter could not very well say no. He had loved the solitude of their relationship thus far, but he also knew that Amanda had a social life outside her dates with him in the snack bar or the Devereaux Room. She told him about parties she went to and plays she saw. When she invited Peter to escort her to any such event, he always claimed he had to study, that his work in the library gave him limited time to keep up with academics. She indulged him in this fantasy up to a point, but she would not be dissuaded from entering the Halloween ball on his arm.

“Besides,” she said, “the great thing about a masquerade is you can hide behind your costume. You won’t be Peter Byerly, you’ll be Romeo.”

“You do know that Romeo dies in the end,” said Peter.

“Yes,” whispered Amanda, “but he also gets to sleep with Juliet.” Peter did not dare ask if this were a promise. Though he continued to tell himself that he was happy not to be sleeping with Amanda for now, he was finding it harder and harder to convince himself this was true. On the evening of the ball, Peter did his best to think only of the gift that awaited Amanda in the Devereaux Room.

She had borrowed their costumes from the Theater department, and Peter had to admit, as he looked at himself in the long mirror on the back of her dorm-room door, that he looked nothing like Peter Byerly. Gold slippers, green tights, and an elaborately gilded doublet hid the real Peter quite nicely. He had never been in her dorm room before, but Amanda had said he could dress there, since her roommate had gone to dinner, while she dressed in the bathroom down the hall. There was no question, Peter said, of his dressing at his apartment and then walking eight blocks through Ridgefield as Romeo.

There was a knock on the door and Peter flicked the lock and let Amanda back in. She looked magnificent: a rich tapestry of blue and silver cascaded from her shoulders to the floor, and matching ribbons were woven skillfully into her hair. Best of all, they were dressed for the ball scene at the Capulets’ house—a masquerade itself—so they wore decorative masks. This made Peter feel he really might be able to step into the crowd at the gymnasium without breaking into a cold sweat.

“You look handsome,” said Amanda, smiling as she adjusted his doublet. “Are you excited?”

“Nervous,” said Peter.

Amanda took his hand and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “We can still kiss with the masks on.”

“That’s not what I was worried about,” said Peter. “All of your friends have been waiting to meet me for months now. Even in the mask, I feel like I’ll be on display.”

“First of all, I don’t have that many friends, and second of all, you don’t even have to talk to anyone. Just dance with me and look handsome.”

“Afterward,” said Peter, “you can unwrap your present.”

“I have a present for you, too,” said Amanda, taking his hand in hers.

“But it’s
your
birthday,” said Peter.

“Well, really, it’s for both of us,” she said, pulling him toward the door.

Peter had imagined Amanda having scores of friends who would mob him on their entry to the masquerade. He had steeled himself for this eventuality by focusing on his identity as Romeo, running over lines from the play in his head. Not until they had entered the gym and stood alone for ten minutes, glasses of punch in hand and unable to converse because of the loud dance music, did it occur to Peter that Amanda had been telling the truth earlier when she said she didn’t have many friends. He realized that he had only ever heard her mention three—her roommate, Jill; Cynthia, a childhood neighbor who had also come to Ridgefield; and Alison, a fellow art history major. Three friends more than Peter had, but not exactly the mob of glamorous socialites he had dreaded.

As the music changed to a slow ballad, Amanda set down her punch and intertwined her fingers in his.

“Dance with me,” she said. Peter allowed her to lead him into the middle of the gym, amid hundreds of swaying bodies draped over one another. She pulled his hand to her waist and placed hers on his shoulder and they began to dance. After a few steps, Peter realized she was leading—he knew nothing about dancing—but the result far exceeded in elegance the hunched and shuffling couples around them. Peter relaxed his body just enough to say to her, without speaking,
Yes, lead me, I will follow you anywhere
. He could see the sparkle in her eyes through the mask.
She speaks, yet she says nothing
, thought Peter. Unlike Romeo, he understood his love’s silent speech perfectly, as she swept him in a wide arc across the dance floor.

Later, standing in the rush of cool air by the door, Amanda introduced Peter to her friends, one at a time.

“So this is your Romeo,” Cynthia said. She was dressed as Marie Antoinette, complete with a bloody slit across her neck. “You’re a lucky man to capture our Juliet.”

“She doth teach the torches to burn bright,” said Peter, finding that the combination of the mask, the costume, and the words that were not his own made meeting Cynthia much easier.

“She won’t tell us much about you,” said Cynthia. “But then Amanda always was good at keeping secrets. All I’ve been able to get from her is a name.”

“What’s in a name?” said Amanda, squeezing Peter’s hand.

“Call me but love and I’ll be newly baptized,” said Peter.

“You two are a pair,” said Cynthia, laughing and embracing Amanda. Before she disappeared back into the crowd, she shook Peter’s hand and said, “Someday, you’ll have to let me see who you really are.” Peter wondered if anyone other than Amanda would ever know who he really was. For now he was happy to be known only as the masked Romeo. The young Montague had helped him survive his first real college party. He wondered how soon he would be called on to repeat the performance without the costume and the mask.

He and Amanda both lowered their masks as they walked hand in hand across the campus in the cool October air. In the distance the bells of Ridgefield Chapel tolled midnight.

“Sounds like your birthday present is going to be late,” said Peter.

“I don’t mind waiting,” said Amanda. “You know you were wonderful tonight.”

“I just followed your lead,” said Peter.

“You have no idea how heavily I lean on you, do you? I mean, when I went to that ball last year I was miserable. I stood in a corner for two hours and turned down every guy who asked me to dance. I just felt out of place. Tonight just felt natural—the dancing and the kisses in the shadows and even the silly conversations with my friends. I just let you hold me up for everything.”

“I thought you were holding me up,” said Peter.

“I guess that’s why it’s called mutual attraction,” said Amanda.

In the Devereaux Room, Peter handed Amanda her birthday present, wrapped as meticulously as it had been restored.

“So this is what all the secrecy was about,” said Amanda, weighing the package in her hand.

“Open it,” said Peter solemnly.

Amanda carefully undid the wrapping—Peter was not surprised that she was not a ripper of wrapping paper.

“A book,” she said with a smile. “I guess I should have known it would be a book.”

“Open it,” said Peter again.

Amanda opened the volume, carefully reading the title and then turning the pages, stopping at each of the stunning illustrations.

“It’s beautiful, Peter,” she said. “And this binding is amazing. How could you . . . I mean, I know I shouldn’t ask this, but how could you afford something so . . . so elegant?”

“It was only a dollar.”

“Oh, Peter, don’t be silly,” said Amanda. “Who would sell a book like this for a dollar?”

“Well, it didn’t exactly look like that when I bought it. It was kind of falling apart and I repaired it and bound it for you.”

“You . . .” Amanda closed the book and saw, for the first time, her initials on the front cover. She seemed to lose all ability to complete her thought as she ran her hands gently across the supple leather. In Peter’s company Amanda was rarely at a loss for words, and he felt a great surge of pride in his accomplishment. He felt himself blushing and glanced down at his doublet in a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment. He need not have bothered, he realized, when he looked back up and saw Amanda’s eyes clouded with tears.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said. In an instant her arms were around him and her body was shaking with sobs. Peter thought for a moment that he had inadvertently hit upon some unknown sorrow in her life. Her uncle had been killed in a tragic bookbinding accident, that sort of thing. But Amanda finally managed to speak through her tears.

“It’s the most perfect present in the world,” she said, loosening her grip on him so he could see her smiling as she wiped her tears away with her sleeve. “I just can’t imagine how much you must . . . must love me to do something like this.”

“A lot,” said Peter simply, who now fought to keep his own tears away at the thought that something he did could have such a profound effect on the woman he loved.

“Oh, Peter,” she said, locking her watery eyes on his. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” said Peter, smiling, because although he knew, it was the first time she had ever said it. “I know you do.”

“Okay, enough crying,” said Amanda, taking a deep breath. “It was a perfect gift, let’s just leave it at that before things get any mushier. Besides, it’s time for you to unwrap your gift.”

“I don’t see any packages,” said Peter.

“I don’t think you quite understand, Romeo,” said Amanda, taking Peter’s hand and guiding it to the laces that bound the front of her dress. “It’s time for you to unwrap your gift.”

T
here was no need to leave for Hay until midmorning, in pursuit of whatever books Julia Alderson had sold, so over breakfast Peter stared once more at the list of owners of the
Pandosto
. True, it would be nice to know if the book had been a gift from Shakespeare to Cotton or how it had gotten from Matthew Harbottle to John Bagford, but the much more pressing questions were, Who were B.B. and E.H.? and How did the book come to Evenlode Manor? If the book was a forgery, it was most likely to have been forged in the nineteenth century when Shakespeare’s reputation was exploding. Peter had to understand the connections between the cryptic initials, Evenlode Manor, and the strange behavior of Julia Alderson if he hoped to prove the book’s authenticity. Unfortunately, his only reliable source of information on the Aldersons was the housekeeper, whom he could hope to encounter only by chance. Martin Wells might know something about the family, but Peter didn’t think the painter would welcome an unannounced visit on a Sunday morning.

It was not until he had finished his second cup of tea and his third slice of toast that Peter realized that Sunday morning meant a ready-made opportunity for mixing with the locals. Dr. Strayer had mentioned church as a good way to meet the villagers, but the only thing that had interested Peter less over the past few months than meeting strangers had been spending time with God. He often thought it would be easier if he could simply lose his faith, but Peter remained a believer and what he believed was that God was a bastard.

The eight o’clock service had already begun as Peter slipped into the back row of St. Andrew’s, well away from the small congregation who huddled in the first few pews. He had walked past the lych-gate a hundred times on solitary evening strolls to the edge of the village but had never ventured into the churchyard, much less the church itself. The interior was dim and dank and held the cold with thermos-like efficiency.

Peter’s family had attended a nearby Baptist church only on the occasional Christmas Eve and Easter, but Amanda had introduced Peter to the Episcopal Church during his junior year. At first he went only to please her, but eventually he came to appreciate the beauty of the liturgy and the music. Over the years his unquestioning childhood acceptance of God grew into a deep and mature faith, nurtured with Amanda at his side. When he lost Amanda, Peter did not lose his belief in God—after all, if he didn’t believe, then how could he blame God for what had happened?

The Anglican service was similar enough to the Episcopal liturgy that Peter knew exactly when to kneel or stand and when he was expected to join in a prayer or response. But he merely sat silently, his coat pulled tight against the cold and the Almighty. He did not take communion.

The congregation and the organ wheezed their way through the final hymn, then quickly the center of activity moved to the back of the nave, where a tray of coffee seemed to appear out of nowhere and cups were handed around. Peter timidly joined the huddled circle and reached for a cup. No one seemed to notice him at first and he was just beginning to think he had been foolish to believe he was going to strike up a conversation with a group of total strangers in a church, of all places, when a man’s voice beside him said cheerfully, “You’re the American chap who did up the cottage in West Street.” Before Peter could respond, or even discover who had addressed him, a woman said, “Oh yes, I’ve seen you round the shop.”

Suddenly Peter was the center of attention, a mini-celebrity and welcome diversion in what was generally a predictable ritual. The man who had first spoken to him introduced himself as Alan, the verger. He was a tall and broad white-haired fellow, wearing enough tweed to account for several denuded sheep. He took Peter by the elbow and guided him around the circle, introducing him to the geriatric population of Kingham.

“So what does an American get up to here in Kingham?” asked a short man whose hand shook as he sipped his coffee.

“I’m a bookseller, actually,” said Peter. “Antiquarian,” he added, as if this would explain exactly why he had settled in the village. This revelation caused a surge of approval around the circle that could hardly have been more enthusiastic if Peter had said he was a philanthropist or a Nobel Prize winner.

“And have you found any good books round the village?” asked Alan, giving Peter just the opportunity he needed.

“I did look at some nice things up at Evenlode Manor yesterday,” he said. “Though I must admit, I went to Evenlode House first by mistake.” This brought a roar of laughter from the circle.

“That
was
a mistake,” said one man.

“Evenlode House and Evenlode Manor in one day. You’ve seen our ‘ancient grudge’ then,” said another, quoting
Romeo and Juliet
.

“How do you mean?” said Peter.

“There’s been bad blood between the Aldersons and the Gardners for centuries,” said a woman whom Peter had not previously noticed. She was so stooped and short that she seemed lost below the elbows of the other parishioners, but she spoke in a strong, clear voice.

“Isn’t there some fellow writing a book about it?” asked the man who had cited Shakespeare.

“That there is,” said the short woman. “Cornish gentleman was here a few months ago. Had a long chat with my older sister. She’s the one who really knows the story.” That this woman, introduced as Martha, could possibly have an
older
sister seemed almost absurd to Peter, but the mention, once again, of the enigmatic Cornish gentleman made him certain that the feud between the inhabitants of the elegant Evenlode Manor and those of the dilapidated Evenlode House was somehow related to the identity of B.B.

“It sounds fascinating,” said Peter. “Positively Shakespearean.”

“It’s sad what’s happened,” said the vicar. “Neighbors shouldn’t act like that.”

“You’ll not see any of them darken the door of this church,” said Alan. “And they certainly won’t be inviting you to tea, vicar. So they won’t be learning your lessons on neighborly behavior.” This brought another outburst of laughter from the circle, and somehow was also the signal that the weekly socializing was over. Coffee cups clattered back onto the tray that was whisked away and the parishioners headed for the door, wrapping scarves around their heads against the morning wind sweeping across the fields from Churchill.

The vicar followed his modest flock to bestow his official good-byes, and Peter found himself alone, or so he thought. “Come back for a slice of cake and Louisa will tell you all about it,” said a voice. Peter looked down to see Martha standing beside him, pulling on her gloves. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:30. He would have liked to get on the road, but the chance to delve a little deeper into the history of the Aldersons and their neighbors was too great a temptation.

“Cake would be lovely,” he said, as he offered his arm to Martha and led her out the door.

Martha and her sister lived in a three-room cottage a hundred yards down the lane from the church. Within a minute of their arrival, Martha had piled fresh wood on the fire in the grate, served Peter a thick slab of ginger cake, and disappeared into the bedroom to retrieve her sister. Louisa was even shorter and more hunched over than Martha. She reminded Peter of Alice of Wonderland when her chin is pressed against her shoes. From his chair by the fire, Peter looked down on her as he said hello, giving him the feeling of addressing an extremely wrinkled eight-year-old. After Martha settled her sister in a chair she disappeared again, returning a moment later with a tray of tea. She poured a cup for each of them, then turned to Louisa, who had not yet spoken a word.

“Mr. Byerly wants to know all about the Aldersons and the Gardners,” she said. A smile of delight crept across Louisa’s face, as if her sole purpose at this late stage of life was to share the gossip of centuries past with whomever might listen.

“That’s a story, that is,” she said, and she paused to sip her tea before plunging into her tale.

“Grandfather worked for the Gardners at Evenlode House starting in the eighteen seventies, when he was just a boy. He used to tell me stories about the family when I was a little girl and we would go walking on the grounds. They was a kind and peaceful family, my old granddad always said.” These were not the adjectives that came to Peter’s mind as he recalled his encounter with the current Mr. Gardner.

“On only one subject did my granddad ever hear a Gardner raise his voice, and that was the Aldersons. There was real hatred there, I tell you.”

“Why?” asked Peter.

“I don’t know how far back it went. Story is they were both royalists in the Civil War, supposed to have hidden two hundred troops between them, but I’ve no idea where. The houses weren’t so large then. But somewhere along the way they stopped agreeing. I do know they both wanted to build a mill on the Evenlode at least two hundred years ago. You see, the Gardners owned all the land south of the river, and the Aldersons owned the land to the north, but nobody could decide who owned the river. But even before that I’m not sure they got along. By the time my granddad was working there, Mr. Phillip Gardner was the head of the house. Oh, the tales Granddad used to spin about Mr. Phillip. Fancied himself a painter, he did.”

Peter nearly choked on his tea at this revelation. Could Phillip Gardner have been B.B.? Was that the reason the Cornish man had been asking questions around Kingham? “What sort of painter?” Peter asked.

“Not a very good one, I suppose,” said Louisa. “Granddad said Mr. Phillip tried and tried to get into the Royal Academy or the Watercolour Society, but he never could. Said he always blamed it on Mr. Alderson. Of course by then the Gardners blamed anything that went wrong on the Aldersons. Granddad says they blamed the Aldersons for the flood that came roaring through the valley and killed all those sheep in the eighteen sixties. Not sure how the Aldersons could control the weather.”

“But this Phillip Gardner was a painter?” asked Peter, eager to get back to that subject.

“Well,” said Louisa, “he painted. Whether that makes him I painter, I couldn’t say. Truth is he found a more reliable way to support the estate. Married a rich widow from down Witney. Not that that worked out so well either.”

“Tell him about the mistress,” said Martha.

“Now we never knew about that for sure,” said Louisa, “but there were certainly mutterings among the servants that Mr. Phillip took a mistress after he was married. But this I can tell you. Four years after he marries the widow, she disappears and he dies under mysterious circumstances.”

“It was ruled an accident,” said Martha.

“It weren’t no accident,” said Louisa. “At least Granddad didn’t think so. Either way, once Mr. Phillip was dead and buried at the family chapel, no one seemed to take much interest in the house. That’s when the place just started falling down.”

“I hear the mistress is buried with him,” whispered Martha.

“Don’t believe a word of it,” said Louisa.

“But how would you know? Even Granddad never set foot in that chapel.”

“I wonder if it’s even there anymore,” said Louisa. “When I was a girl, Granddad would point it out to me, and even then it was covered with vines and crumbling.”

“Where was it?” asked Peter, wondering if uncovering the scandal of Phillip Gardner’s marriage might give him some further clue about B.B.

“Down the hill past the house,” said Martha. “Though I doubt Thomas would be offering to take you for a tour.”

“Thomas? Is he the one who lives in Evenlode House now?”

“Lives in a caravan in the garden, from what I hear,” said Martha.

“Yes, that’s him,” said Louisa. “Mr. Phillip’s great-great-nephew.”

“So,” said Peter, “this Phillip Gardner was a frustrated painter, he married a rich widow, and four years later he died mysteriously?”

“That’s right,” said Louisa. “No one ever accused the wife of murder, but they buried him awfully quick, from what Granddad said.”

“Was Phillip the one who collected all those papers and things?” asked Martha.

“Oh, yes, I nearly forgot about that.”

“What sort of papers?” asked Peter, trying to contain his excitement as another piece of evidence seemed about to fit into place.

“Once he had the widow’s money, Mr. Phillip thought he’d show off a bit, you see. Now he knew that Mr. Alderson fancied himself a collector—furniture, artwork, and he had a special weakness for . . . what would you call them? Letters and autographs of kings and that sort of thing.”

“Historical documents,” prompted Peter, picturing the cache at Evenlode Manor.

“I suppose that’s what they were,” said Louisa. “Anyway, Mr. Phillip took to collecting them sorts of things himself. Used to show them off to Granddad. It only went on for a couple of years.”