Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

“Was Chardé working over here?” I asked casually, trying to disguise my interest. I couldn’t exactly admit to breaking into a playroom.

“I hope not,” said Michaela. “We try to keep that woman as contained as possible. Or at least, I do,” she added with a sourness that was impossible to miss.

I stopped in front of the playroom and tilted my head at the door. “What’s in here?”

“It used to be old living quarters,” said Michaela with a smile. “But we’re having them fixed up. Without Chardé, hopefully. Let’s go.”

To my surprise, Michaela did not live on the ground floor of the north range-the castle front - but through a door and up another set of stairs to the second story. At the top of the steps, she slipped a brass key from under a plastic welcome mat. Interesting to note that while the Hydes were extremely security-conscious, Michaela was not… .

“In the flood of ‘82?” she explained as she fiddled with the lock. “The west side of the north range’s first story was also completely flooded. This side of the gatehouse has been our living quarters since my grandfather’s time.” She sighed and pushed open the door. “We lost boxes of books and letters that I had stored in closets. Our family used to have the two stories, but now my whole operation is upstairs. Downstairs is more storage area.”

Inside her door, Michaela flipped on lights that illuminated a golden-oak floor, a narrow, white-painted room lined with racks of swords, and a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of mats and open folding chairs. At first I thought we were in a gym of some kind, but I realized belatedly that this was the Kirovsky fencing loft, where Eliot’s father and grandfather had learned the Royal Sport from Michaela’s forebears.

“This is so cool,” said Arch, entranced.

“This is where I’ve been coaching Howie Lauderdale and a few other juniors and seniors before the state meet. Elk Park Prep doesn’t want us in the gym late at night or early in the morning, so we sometimes have to meet here. When you’re a member of the varsity, Arch, this is where I’ll coach you, too.”

“Great,” said my son, trying in vain to suppress a smile. When you’re a member of the varsity. To my son, those were magical words.

“Come into the rest of the apartment,” Michaela told, us. “It’s set up like railroad cars, one room after the other. Loft, living room, kitchenette. The loft takes up so much space that we didn’t have much left for family quarters, upstairs. But it’s enough for me. Come on, I want you to see my collection.”

The living room, a spare, austere arrangement of old - not antique - furniture, consisted of a couch and one chair. A threadbare green rug lay on the floor. There was no coffee table, only two mismatched end tables. But brightly colored crocheted afghans and an assortment of garage-sale pillows gave the room a comfortable feel.

The walls immediately captured my attention. I slid beside the fraying couch and stared at row after row of cheaply framed photos, hundreds of them, all cut from magazines. Every one seemed to be of armor, castles, and the crowned heads of Europe. A magazine copy of a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I, her red hair swept up above her wide, white ruff, was hung next to a photograph of a: youthful Prince Charles. There were dozens of photographs of stodgy-looking Queen Victoria, sometimes alone, sometimes with Prince Albert. Nicholas and Alexandra had a row all to themselves. This wasn’t really a collection: It was more like the room of a passionate Royal-watcher.

“What started all this?” I asked.

“Family tradition,” Michaela answered. “We were living in a castle, so when I was a kid I wondered about the people who lived in castles.”

“Did you take all this over to Furman County Elementary?” Arch demanded. “I mean, for Show and Tell, when you were little?”

Michaela laughed and shook her head. “I was home-schooled before it was fashionable, Arch. Then went to community college as a commuter student. But the kings and queens have always remained my friends, and the collection has grown over the years. I have a passion for any royal portrait.”

Ah, God, I thought. On stamps, too? No, I decided in the same moment. No way. Michaela had no connection to Ray Wolff and Andy Balachek, except that she’d known Andy when he was little. She’d loved him, and truly deplored his descent into the gambling lifestyle. Plus, a woman who’d never ventured farther than the nearby community college, and had always and only known caretaking at the castle, wouldn’t take a flyer on a risky hijacking venture, would she?

“Got any more?” Arch asked eagerly.

A wall devoted to French royalty, Michaela announced, was actually the bottom of her Murphy bed. When she folded it down, there wasn’t much room in the place, she added, so she’d spare us the sight. Each night, she announced with a hint of naughtiness, it helped her to know she was sleeping on Louis XIV.

“Okay, enough of my nutty hobby. I make great hot chocolate,” she said to Arch. “Or tea or instant coffee or even instant hot spiced cider, if you’re interested,” she told me. I said that hot spiced cider sounded terrific, and followed her into the tiny kitchenette. The cramped space had a stone floor, a small set of cupboards, and a narrow counter crowded with a hot plate, an ancient electric vat coffeepot - the same kind I used for catered events - and a cookie jar in the shape of the Kremlin. Inside the jar were Russian tea cakes. Michaela pulled the vat lever for hot water that made Arch’s cocoa and my cider, along with some tea for herself. I burned my tongue sipping the steaming cider, but it cleared my head.

Soon we were seated in the royal-photos living room, munching rich, buttery tea cakes while savoring our hot drinks. That’s the thing about a big dinner; you eat it and then half an hour later you’re wishing for a snack. I tried not to notice the grandmotherly eyes of Queen Victoria, or how that plump countenance seemed to watch my every bite. Arch and Michaela chatted happily. She really was wonderful with kids. Why, though, given her apparent animosity for Eliot and this crummy apartment, would she stay in the castle? Did Elk Park Prep pay their coaches so badly that she couldn’t afford a place of her own? Or did she stay because of the gorgeous fencing loft?

“How about that dueling demonstration?” I suggested.

Arch and Michaela grinned, set aside their plates, and stood. While Arch donned his mask, Michaela explained, “In 1547, two French noblemen fought the first private duel of honor. François de Vivonne, seigneur de La Châtaigneraie, insulted Guy Chabot, Baron de Jarnac, by publicly accusing de Jarnac of having sex with his own motherin-law. De Jarnac immediately challenged Châtaigneraie to a duel, which was viewed by the French king, Henry the Second, and hundreds of courtiers.” She stopped to put on her mask. “En garde, Arch.”

Again the two of them went back and forth, grunting, thrusting, parrying, and offering aggressive ripostes. They seemed entirely focused on their match. When Arch scored a hit just below Michaela’s shoulder, she laughed out loud and asked him to stop for a moment Removing her mask, she told me, “De Jarnac and Châtaigneraie did not solve their conflict so easily. Slowly, now, Arch, lunge and I will parry and riposte. Then stop.”

My son lunged. Michaela’s parry deftly flicked Arch’s sword aside. Then she did a slow-motion riposte onto Arch’s calf. He froze, as instructed.

“De Jarnac,” Michaela said; “instead of going for the heart, cut the major artery in Châtaigneraie’s leg. Then de Jarnac slashed his opponent’s other leg, and demanded that Châtaigneraie withdraw his insult. Châtaigneraie refused and bled to death in front of the king. That was the end of court-sanctioned dueling in France. The leg-attack became known as the ‘Coup de Jarnac.’”