Scott Spencer - A Ship Made of Paper

Daniel has heard about what is going on between Ferguson and Marie—people inWindsor County gossip about the local gentry as if they are royalty, or movie stars.Marie is the daughter ofSkipThorne, a former caretaker at Eight Chimneys, and she was raised right there on the estate.Ferguson has a reputation ofbeing especially drawn to young girls, and it’s also been said that he’d found Marie attractive even when she was eight years old.

She turns when they come in.She has been looking forward to this meeting.Her plan to save Eight Chimneys is her gift to Ferguson;she hopes it will put them on equal footing and allow them one day to have a life together.She is dressed for business, in an oatmeal-colored tweed suit and a strand ofpearls.

“I’m here with Daniel Emerson,”Ferguson says.“The lawyer?”His voice booms without effort, it seems like an unwelcome miracle of acoustics, he opens his mouth and a shout emerges.

“Mr.Emerson.”Marie extends her hand and strides across the library to greet Daniel.She moves easily through rooms she has known her whole life.

“So you want to turn this place into a museum?”Daniel says, as soon as they are seated at the library table.

“Not all ofit!”Susan says, with some alarm.“Not the whole house.”

“We’re thinking ofjust the main floor and the cellar,”says Ferguson.

“And maybe some ofthe land, the property right around the house.”

“And a swath going down to the river,”adds Marie.

”A swath?”says Susan.The word feels vulgar, like“hopefully,”or“be that as it may.”

“Let me give you a little background,”Ferguson says.“You need to understand why we’re considering…”

Susan rises to light the stubs ofcandles in various holders around the room.With unconscious frugality, she tries to light them all with one match.Suddenly the green shaded lamp on the desk flickers on, and a moment after that comes the whine ofthe water pump down below in the cellar coming back to life.

But the respite is momentary.The lamp goes dark again and the pump is still.Ferguson laughs his strange, grating laugh.“It’s a mess, the electric company around here,”says Ferguson.“And it was from the outset.Our un-cle used to be on the board ofdirectors ofWindsor Power.Clare Richmond.

People thought he was a woman.In fact, at one point I had an Uncle Clare and anAunt Michael.Do you rememberAunt Michael?”he says to Susan.

Susan doesn’t like to dwell on the fact that she and her husband are related, however distantly, and she ignores his question.“You can’t cut out a swath ofland, it doesn’t make any sense.”

The snow-filled windows are darkening, and the sudden sound ofa splitting tree is like the deadly bark ofa rifle.Ferguson returns to the sub-ject ofthe museum.He makes something ofa show oftelling Daniel about the financial pressures facing Eight Chimneys.Good professional manners dictate that Daniel take this to be shocking, distressing news, though everyone in the area is fully aware ofthe perpetual peril in which the Richmond estate operates, and even ifDaniel weren’t privy to the lo-cal gossip, one look at the place would tell him all he needed to know.

“Ifwe can’t figure out this money business fairly soon,”Ferguson says,

“this property might very well fall into the hands ofdevelopers and end up as Eight Chimneys Estates, or be turned into a rest home, or a mental hospital.”

“Some people think it already is a mental hospital,”Susan can’t keep herselffrom saying.

“Something you said makes me curious,”Daniel says.“You said you wanted to use the main floor and the cellar.”

“Oh, the cellar!”says Marie.She has turned her eyes toward Daniel.

They are bright and somehow thick, like the inside ofoyster shells.“That’s one ofthe most important parts.Do you know the Underground Railroad?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Well, as you know, it wasn’t really a railroad, it was really a whole lot ofhiding places.Like a system ofthem.And the cellar here was part ofit.There are these secret rooms and passageways.Slaves, mostly from Georgia, they were kept there.”

“We’re so lucky to have Marie, aren’t we?”says Susan, turning around.The corners ofher mouth are turned down and her wide-set eyes blaze with anger.“Not only does she come to us with all her knowl-edge ofarts administration, but she knows history, too.”

“They’re for storage now,”Marie says, unfazed.“But we’re going to clean them out and make them like before.You can go down there, ifyou want.You can still feel the spirits ofthe escaped slaves.”

In unison, the four ofthem turn to a clatter ofnoise coming from the hall, and a moment later the library door swings open and two men walk in, one ofthem middle-aged, with a warm, beatific smile, a down vest, and a maroon beret sparkling with snow.He cradles in his arms several brightly printedTibetan silk ceremonial flags.The other man is tall, an-gular, with long, black hair grown past his shoulders and a patch over his eye;he carries a large wooden box filled with fireworks.

“I’m sorry,”the smaller man says, in a low, Spanish-accented voice,

“we knocked and there was no answer.”

“Oh, Ramon!”Susan says, springing up from her chair.“I didn’t realize you were bringing all this over today.”

“Tomorrow I go to Bogotá,and then to BuenosAires.”

“There’s more outside in the truck,”the taller man says.“We betterhurry.”

Susan accepts kisses from Ramon on both cheeks, and then peers into the crate filled with Catherine wheels, Roman candles, gigantic orange sparklers.“Come on, Ferguson,”she says.“Help us unload this, please, before it’s all spoiled.Let’s get it offthe truck and into the ballroom.”

“The ballroom?”Ferguson says.“What’s it going to do in there?What is this stuffanyhow?”

“It’s for a purification ceremony two weeks from yesterday.We’ve got a van filled with monks coming up for it.”

Ferguson reluctantly rises.“I’m surprised at you, Ramon.I thought you were a good Catholic.”

“I sit at the feet ofanyone with wisdom,”Ramon says, beaming.

”Ifwe don’t do this soon, it’s not going to happen,”the tall man says.

”Please, Ferguson, let’s hurry,”Susan says.For a moment, it seems she is going to clap her hands, but she instead reaches out to him implor-ingly.“Marie can tell Mr.Emerson everything he needs to know, and what she forgets we can fill in when we get back.”

When the Richmonds and the two men leave the library—their footsteps soon disappear into the dank, porous silence ofthe house—Daniel and Marie sit silently in the flickering gloom for a few moments.Daniel glances at Marie, afraid that she might sense it ifhe simply stared at her.

She sits silently, her fragile hands folded.She has a prominent forehead, which, combined with her pale skin and dark hair, gives her the appear-ance ofsomeone temperamental, a worrier, a sufferer, someone who is capable oflashing out.She breathes in;the nostrils ofher long, stern nose practically close, and then she exhales and sits deeper in her chair, lets her head fall against the cracked leather back.

“It’s so sad when love dies,”she says.

”Yes, it is,”Daniel says.

”This used to be a very happy house,”she says.

”Ferguson’s pretty excited about this idea ofyours,”Daniel says.

”My father loved this house, and everything connected to it.”

“I met your father a couple oftimes,”Daniel says.Marie has no noticeable reaction to this;perhaps she, like the masters ofthe house, be-lieves that everyone in Leyden knows her and her family in some way.

”He saw my father a couple oftimes.He came to the house.”