Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

“Because it is fascinating. We look back with knowledge. They lived in the middle of it and poor Louis XVI, following Louis XV, handsome but not the smartest; even had he been, a powerful man couldn’t have stopped the madness. Something about the Bourbons. Even the brightest ones couldn’t see the noses on the front of their faces.”

“Who can? When it gets that irrational, that rigid, who can?” She looked again at the desk. “Then again, people can’t seem to leave one another alone.”

“Mmm. When I’m alone in the shop, I look around at the paintings on the wall, the fabrics, the colors, and I imagine they lived in simpler times, but of course our ancestors did not.” He motioned to her. “Come sit with me a bit. We’ll both repose in beauty.”

She sat on the dark green Chesterfield sofa, a safe choice for anyone interested in comfort. “When did you open the shop? Remind me?”

“In 1989. I think sometimes about painting the year on the door but 1989 on a building constructed in 1780 seems out of place.” He grinned.

“You have a point there.” She smiled at him.

“I had no idea what I was doing. I put a down payment on the house, opened the shop, and prayed.”

“Your prayers were answered. Wouldn’t you do it all over again? Just take a chance. I wonder about people living their gray little lives hagridden by the need for security, and of course there is no security. And we think it all comes from money.” She inclined toward him. “Americans put their faith in external things, but then again the French Revolution, the times of poor Louis XVI, the cover was Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! But don’t you think it was really Envy! Spite! Greed!”

“Sister, you should teach history.”

“I’d be drummed out of the academy in no time.” She laughed.

“Do I think envy and greed drove those thousands forward? I do. No different in Russia or Spain or you name it. The cover is always something noble-sounding, perhaps that way no one will hear the guillotine.”

She grimaced then looked back at the desk aglow in the soft light. “Fortunately, that Louis had no idea.”

“No, but he certainly had beautiful mistresses.” Harry laughed.

Sister laughed with him. “I’d think one woman would be bad enough.”

He lowered his voice. “Ah, no female equivalent. Are there some kept men? Well, yes, but it’s not the same. Powerful men want beautiful women. Think of them as flesh and blood Ferraris.”

“That’s awful,” she said with feeling.

“I don’t doubt that it is but it’s real. It’s a form of parading your power, as was some of this furniture. You could afford it so you did and showed it off.”

“Well,” she thought about it, “yes.”

“People don’t change, Sister. We’ve known what we are for thousands of years but we can’t admit it. How did we get off on this? I’m trying to sell you the Louis XV desk.”

“Oh, we can and do wander.”

“Speaking of wandering, how about Morris Taylor driving through Cindy Chandler’s fence? His deterioration was upsetting, even though I can’t stand him or his brother. It was shocking to see him.”

“It was. There’s such a strong resemblance among the Taylors. Morris and Drew look a lot like their father. Morris’s son looks like the family. You see that often in horses and hounds, as well.”

“Karma.”

“What?”

“Morris. It’s karma.” He spoke with conviction.

“I don’t know.” She did think the Taylors had been foolish, but best to stay neutral.

“I believe in karma. I also hope I do not suffer a protracted decline.”

“I hope so for both of us. There’s a lot to be said for a quick exit.”

He folded his hands over his chest, leaning back. “Did you notice the bois de bout marquetry, stylized, floral design?”

“I did. Beautiful.”

“I will sell you that desk for twenty thousand dollars.” He reached for her hand. “Were it original, the price would be over one hundred thousand but this is a reproduction made in the eighteenth century.”

“Harry, I don’t have twenty thousand in my back pocket.”

“How about stuffed in your bra?”

“You’re incorrigible.” She laughed at him.

“True, so true, but you need that desk. Think of Uncle Arnold.”

“I’m thinking of Gray.”

“Oh poof.” He waved his hand. “A little kiss here and there, plus it is your money.”

“Oh, I know but he is so careful. If I overspend he gets the vapors.”

“Accountant.” Harry waved his hand again. “But have you ever noticed neither he nor any other accountant suffers the vapors when it’s something they want?”

“I have seen him agonize over a new pair of Dehner boots. Ultimately he did get measured for them. His feet demanded it. But he does suffer. Mercer, his cousin, shrewd about profit, could get him to spend money. It was hard to believe they were related.”

“Oh, how I miss Mercer. You know Aunt Daniella comes into the shop, she brings Yvonne Harris with her. Aunt Daniella can be so naughty. Mercer was like his mother.” A pause followed this with a wistful postscript. “I do so wish Yvonne would be naughty.”

“Ha.” Sister giggled, a beguiling trait.

“I have the answer. Ask Gray for half for the desk. Make him part of it. Tell him to meet you halfway and rip his clothes off. That will work.”

She flopped back on the sofa, holding a pillow to her lap. “You are the worst man I know.”

“Oh, I hope so.” He grinned.

She responded, “I do want the desk. You knew I would. Can you give me time to try and figure this out? I have mourned Uncle Arnold’s desk ever since it was stolen years ago.”

“Take your time. Think it through. There are other Louis XV desks out there but none as beautiful as this one. I mean it.”

“I will.”

“And I promise I will not sell it to anyone but my respected and beloved master.”

“You forgot to add foolish.”

“Oh, Sister, what good does it do to be sensible all the time? You only live once.”

CHAPTER 5

February 26, 2019 Tuesday

The entrance to Horse Country in Warrenton, Virginia, bespoke established grace. The floor beckoned with a checkerboard black-and-white pattern, a pattern beloved for centuries in Northern Europe, especially in the estates of the powerful. The wall immediately to one’s right glowed with mahogany bookshelves, the top shelf a half moon, and above that a line of boots, and whatever Marion Maggiolo, the proprietress, wished to put up there. The shelves themselves yielded treasures, be they old signs from long-ago times or more boots, nineteenth-century books bound in red Morocco with gilt edges. Sometimes a two-seater carriage sat before all this, other times, a comfortable chair covered in the store’s signature zebra print, although not a true skin, of course.

The store also reflected a quiet version of success. So if you walked in there, you felt successful.

The rear of the store housed the library full of more leather-bound books, some rare and expensive, others from the 1920s–1950s and well within reach of a modest budget. Jenny Young oversaw the library.

Wherever one looked beautiful items sang a siren song, the old silver in the north cases, the clothes along the south side of the wall or in the smaller room off and behind the northern cases, clothing designed to make people look good, perhaps too good. Scarlet then as now made men bedazzling. To say scarlet led women to their ruin might be an overstatement. If the lady had discipline perhaps she could resist. Then again, why resist?

Such ideas were not swirling in Jean Roberts’s mind, for closing time neared. She began to put items away for the night. Business had been booming since cubbing, which starts after Labor Day, and the Christmas season had proved intense and profitable, thank you, Jesus.