“Very likely,” said Rogerio. He lengthened his stride and went on down the path, where another path crossed the one they were on. “Which way?”
“Up the hill,” said Saint-Germain.
They had passed three more gatherings of cabins before they got to the crest of the rise where two of the large cabins stood: Yosemite on the north side of the path, Tuolumne on the south; it did indeed have a patio, a balcony, and a chimney, and the car road skimmed the edge of the lot on which the cabin stood, offering easy access to a parked car. The cabin had two walls of huge windows, one on the south side with French doors built into it, facing the lake; the other expansive window was on the west side of the building, giving an excellent view of the lodge itself. The patio wrapped around the south and east flank, near the front door, and the balcony was on the east. From the inside came the sound of a carpet-sweeper being operated.
“It will have a great deal of light,” said Rogerio.
“I can see that,” Saint-Germain agreed. “I think I’ll bring in one of my chests. My native earth will counter-act the light from the windows.”
Rogerio made a gesture to show he understood; then he looked down the hill. “Four more cabins just below us. And it looks as if one of them is occupied.”
“I’ll be careful,” Saint-Germain assured him, adding, “There is no reason to be reckless, not here.”
“You are not often reckless,” said Rogerio as if to remind himself of that “Not when you have any choice in the matter.”
“Yes. I prefer not to be,” Saint-Germain said as they started down the slope toward the four cabins. “But think of the excellent investment the spa in Austria has turned out to be. It took thirty years to pay off, but it has been earning money steadily since 1872. This place has just the same potential. By 1955, I would think it would be flourishing.”
“This isn’t Austria,” Rogerio reminded him. “And, given the politics in Austria, you may not be able to hold on to the spa much longer.”
“Even if I lose it, it has returned handsomely on my investment,” said Saint-Germain. “Unlike the living, I can afford to wait.”
Rogerio had no answer for this. He glanced back over his shoulder at Tuolumne. “It is a pleasant site.”
“The whole resort is—that is what I like about it.” They had reached the next group of cabins. “Sutter Creek, Yuba River, Feather River, and Mokelumne River. I sense another theme here. Yuba River has at least two guests in it.”
“The theme is regional, as with all the rest,” Rogerio said, picking up his pace to keep up with Saint-Germain.
“I do like this place. I can see why it isn’t doing well just now—very few people can afford to come here, or anywhere, for that matter. But when the country finally emerges from its financial woes, I should think this would be just the kind of resort where many families would want to come on holiday. With the improvements on the roads, it should make Lake Tahoe an easy destination for many.” Saint-Germain walked past the four cabins to another group of eight; unlike the others, these were all of the same design and large enough to house four or five people; they were numbered instead of named. “This must be for the staff. The cabins are simpler—no patios, no balconies, no picture windows—but the look of them is still a handsome one. And in another decade, they will not look out-of-fashion, they will have regained their charm in the public eye.” He continued on, closely observing all he saw. When they reached the last group of cabins—Mono Lake, Cathedral Lake, Loon Lake, French Meadow Lake, Silver Lake, Gold Lake—just below the terrace where the swimming pool was located, Saint-Germain announced, “I will make arrangements through the attorney and the bank to invest in this place.”
“Was that in doubt?” Rogerio asked.
“Probably not,” Saint-Germain conceded. “But it will require finesse. Unless I have erred in my assessment of Mrs. Curt, she does not want to be beholden to anyone, for fear of losing what she has. Tact will be needed, and an ironclad contract that gives her autonomy in running the place for as long as she is willing and capable.”
“And it will give you a place to go to ground,” Rogerio said knowingly. “In case you should need one.”
Saint-Germain hesitated before he answered. “What better place than a resort? It has worked in the past.” He looked around again.
Rogerio nodded twice. “That it has.”
Satisfied that they were in agreement, Saint-Germain changed the subject. “I’ll drive the auto up to the cabin; if you’ll check out the lodge for me?”
“I will,” said Rogerio. “And I’ll report on what I find.”
“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain. “Do you mind walking up to the cabin when you’ve done? It isn’t a long way.”
“Of course not,” said Rogerio.
“I need not have asked; pardon me for being maladroit.” He lowered his head as an acknowledgment. As Rogerio walked away toward the patio, Saint-Germain went around the front of the lodge to the entrance to the registration lobby, where Mrs. Curt was waiting, a key in her hand. “Is that ours?”
“Count Ragoczy—” she began.
“Count Saint-Germain,” he corrected her kindly. “Mr. Ragoczy will do very well, Mrs. Curt.”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Nor did you,” he said. “But my native earth is far away, and yours is officially an egalitarian country, so Mr. Ragoczy will suffice.” He took the key, noticing that she was disappointed. “You have a beautiful resort here, Mrs. Curt.”
She ventured a smile. “We’ve got a hayride planned for tonight, starting at eight. I don’t know if you like that kind of thing, but—”
“I have no idea: what is a hayride?”
“Oh, we harness up Davy and Joe to the buckboard, fill the bed with hay, and load the guests in on top of it, and then go off for a moonlight ride down to the lake, and then up the back way, along the eastern edge of the lodge’s land. It takes a couple of hours.” She paused, then plunged ahead. “We’re having a bonfire when we get back, down in the fire-pit on the far side of the parking lot. Marshmallows and hot dogs for everyone. Beer and coffee for the grown-ups, apple juice for the kids.”
Saint-Germain had learned in his long drive from Chicago that marshmallows were a kind of soft meringue and that hot dogs were sausages, so he could say without hesitation, “It sounds charming, but I believe Mr. Rogers and I are in need of rest. We’ve been traveling hard for ten days, and, to be candid, we’re both ready for a little sleep.” He did not add that his sleep was more like a coma and lasted, at most, four hours.
“Well, hayrides aren’t everybody’s cup of tea.” She gave a little sigh.
“But tomorrow,” Saint-Germain went on, “I wonder if you could rent me a pair of your horses? I am an experienced rider—you need not fear I will do anything foolish—and I would welcome a few hours in the saddle.”
She brightened. “I’m sure we can arrange something. You’ll have to take a guide with you. That’s our policy—it won’t do to have guests lost in the forest. It’s happened in the past, and the sheriff insists that all rent-strings have guides.”
“Good enough,” said Saint-Germain. “Shall we say seven in the morning? I prefer to ride before the day gets hot.”
“All right I’ll have Mickey or Julian meet you at the stable at seven. I guess you’ll want English saddles?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.” Saint-Germain smiled slightly. “An old habit.”
“We have English saddles as well as Western.” She turned as a young woman came in from a door at the far end of the registration lobby, which Saint-Germain assumed, by the aroma filling the air, led to the kitchen. “Yes, Grace?”
“Excuse me, but Paschal needs you, Aunt Enid,” she said, and ducked back through the door.
Mrs. Curt gave Saint-Germain an apologetic gesture. “I’ll have to take care of this, whatever it is.”
“How many family members do you employ?” Saint-Germain asked
quietly. “Do you mind me asking?”
“No, I don’t mind. Six in winter, as many as ten in summer. It’s the only thing I can do to help. I’d give them all jobs if I could. God knows there are men who are willing to work. Women too. Grace has four younger brothers and sisters, and she doesn’t want to be a drain on the family; my brother-in-law’s been out of work for four years. Their oldest boy’s going into the CCC, to plant trees up north, but the others are too young; two of them have little jobs, and everything helps, but it’s hard.” She said this as if she were reciting a lesson or something she had repeated many times. “We all have to pitch in. I can’t pay a lot, but I can give Grace a place to stay and three squares a day, and I make sure she goes to school.”
“How old is she?” Saint-Germain asked.
“Seventeen. She’ll graduate from high school next May, and she’ll be off to college. She’s got applications in at Cal Davis and College of the Pacific in Stockton. She’ll have to work her way through, wherever she goes, but at least she’ll have some job experience behind her, and that should help.” She waved to indicate her departure. “Dinner starts at five-thirty. This time of year we don’t worry about seatings. Come when you like between five-thirty and eight. And let me know if you change your mind about the hayride.”
“I will,” he said as Mrs. Curt went through the kitchen door.
Slipping the key into his pocket, Saint-Germain went out to the Packard, got in, and started toward the access road, heading up the hill past the lake cabins toward the staff residences and on up the hill. He pulled into the parking space on the northeast side of the cabin and set the brake as he turned off the motor. As he got out of the Packard, he looked around with his usual care, then went to the door and turned the key in the lock, opening the door onto a large central room with a river-stone fireplace, a pair of sofas in the Arts-and-Crafts style—just now in need of reupholstering—a coffee table with a Mission-style lamp on it, two occasional chairs. An Indian rug was spread on the flagstone floor, its colors vivid in the slanting afternoon light that flooded in from the wide picture window. The stairs to the second floor began next to the fireplace, rising to the gallery leading to the balcony. One door on the gallery, standing open, showed a room with a double bed. Under the gallery, two doors opened on another bedroom and a bathroom done in peach-and-green tile. Saint-Germain made a quick inspection of the cabin, and was pleased with what he saw.
“Oh, very nice,” said Rogerio as he came through the door.
“It is, isn’t it?” Saint-Germain said.
“If the other cabins are as nice as this one—” Rogerio began.
“Mrs. Curt says this is her best,” Saint-Germain interjected.
“Still, it is a great deal more promising than the Austrian spa was when you bought your half-interest in it” Rogerio sat down on the nearer of the two sofas.
“My thoughts exactly,” Saint-Germain said. “I’ll take the upper room, I think. The bathroom can mean running water, and I would rather not have to deal with any more of that than necessary.” He angled his head so that he could look out the southern window without having to stand in front of it. “By the way, I’ve reserved horses for us for tomorrow morning at seven.”
“In case you want to buy adjacent land as you’ve done with your resorts in Austria and Bavaria,” said Rogerio, being careful to keep his tone neutral; Bavaria was still a painful memory for Saint-Germain.
“Truly,” said Saint-Germain at his most matter-of-fact.
Rogerio went to the fireplace, where kindling and short logs had been laid. “Do you plan to light this later?”
“It will depend on how cold it gets. It would raise suspicions if we make no effort to keep warm.” He went and tried the latch on the French doors; they opened easily, and Saint-Germain stepped out onto the patio. “This is very nice.”
“A good place to go to ground?” Rogerio suggested as he had earlier.
“As I said before, that had occurred to me,” Saint-Germain said, a touch of irony in his voice. “This is new territory to me, and it would be prudent to have a safe haven nearer to San Francisco than Chicago.”
“Just so,” Rogerio said.
“I’ll make any necessary arrangements with Mrs. Curt tomorrow, and we can leave the day after.” He pressed his small, well-shaped hands together. “I won’t do anything so foolish as lease one of the guest cabins—that would draw too much attention. There are advantages to having resorts for vampires, if we’re careful. But tomorrow morning, when we ride, be alert for other buildings. I would like to be able to leave at least one chest of my native earth here in a protected place.”
“Speaking of chests, when should we bring in our luggage? And how much should we bring in?” Rogerio asked from his comfortable place on the sofa.
“Shortly; no more than twenty minutes. Otherwise we might attract attention,” Saint-Germain said in the Latin of Imperial Rome.
“All right,” said Rogerio in the same language. “Your leather suitcase, and my Gladstone bag. You’ll bring in one of your chests of earth—”
“The smallest,” said Saint-Germain. “I have no desire to cause any more speculation than I must.” He came back inside, closed the door, and slid the locking bolt into place. “So I will go fetch my chest and carry it up the stairs.”
Rogerio got up. “I’ll manage the suitcase and the bag.” He followed Saint-Germain out of the door to the Packard, where they found a boy staring at it.
“That’s some car, mister,” he said, as if summoning up his nerve to speak at all.
“Thank you,” said Saint-Germain.
“I saw you drive it up to your cabin. We’re down in Yuba River.” He was nine or ten, wearing dusty cotton trousers, a plaid shirt a size too large for him, and canvas-topped shoes.
“Your whole family? How nice for you.” Saint-Germain made no mention of the school year, which had already begun.
“Dad says it’s the last vacation for a while and we better make the most of it. We go home next Sunday.” He turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder, “It’s a real fine car” before he bolted, running off down the path.
“What now?” Rogerio asked.
“We unload the things we need,” said Saint-Germain. “What else?” He unlocked the rear door and unfastened the leather strap that held the cargo in place. Pulling out a small chest, he stepped back and went toward the open door, knowing that Rogerio would attend to the other bags.
TEXT OF A NOTE FROM MILES SUNBURY IN LONDON TO DOÑA ISABEL INEZ VEDANCHO Y NUÑEZ AT COPSEHOWE.
43C Siddons Lane
City of Westminster
14 September, 1936
Doña Isabel I. Vedancho y Nuñez
Copsehowe
nr. Briarcopse
Hampshire
My dear Doña Isabel,
Forgive my presuming upon our acquaintance to write to you so informally, but after our luncheon in Uxbridge, I hope I may count you as much a friend as a benefactor of my clients concern for your welfare, which I have come to share.
As you will recall, you expressed a desire to own a pair of lurchers. I have spoken to a reputable breeder who has assured me he has a pair that should be suitable: both are a year old, and are half-brothers, properly trained and generally suitable. If you will deputize me, I’ll drive out to Surrey and collect these lurchers and bring them to you on any day that will suit you.
I must tell you that I was delighted to see you have settled into the English way of life so well. I know you will become more accustomed to our society as time goes by. It would please me very much if you would be willing to permit me to help you make this transition.
Believe me,
Most sincerely at your service,
Miles Sunbury
chapter four
“So what do you think of San Francisco?” Rowena Saxon asked Saint-Germain as they strolled along the Marina Green toward the Palace of Fine Arts, where he had left his Packard parked. It was
a chilly afternoon, the fog just beginning to blow in through the Golden Gate past the incomplete bridge, suffusing the light; the warm September sunshine could make no headway against the wind and the thickening haze.
“One of my blood was here almost a century ago; this is much-changed from what she described to me,” he said; Madelaine de Montalia had reported a new, raw, bustling place of wooden buildings, muddy streets, and tall ships: today San Francisco was a true metropolis, boasting handsome avenues, commerce and culture, a diverse population, vast numbers of houses, and a thriving port. “Except for the weather, of course. It is just as she described it.”
Rowena laughed, her golden eyes shining with more than merriment. “I should imagine so,” she told him. She was no longer the same young woman he had last seen in Amsterdam, before the Great War; she was middle-aged and her strawberry-blond hair had faded to what she called “light roan,” a kind of pale, pale shade between peach and coral. There were lines in her face that showed her character clearly, unlike the slightly unfinished look he remembered, and although she was still trim, her body had taken on the contours of maturity. She wore a casual suit in dark ochre wool over a silk blouse of rich chocolate-brown, both of which she had bought at the City of Paris on Union Square; she had not bothered to put on a hat, and her shoes were more comfortable than fashionable. Her clutch purse of oxblood leather was tucked under her arm and her gloves matched the purse. She picked up her pace. “Come on. It’s only going to get colder.” Unlike a great many expatriate British who rigorously maintained the language of England, her accent had blurred and faded over the years, and she now spoke a curious hybrid, no longer entirely English, nor yet quite American.
“As you wish,” he said, lengthening his stride. “Does it ever get truly hot here?”
“We have a couple of beastly days each year—often one or two in early summer, and then in October, of all things. The hottest day I can remember was in October. It was stifling. But that comes to an end quickly, and by the end of the month it’s chilly. The rains usually start in early November, and last until March.” She folded her arms to help stay warm. “It’s going to be sere tonight.”
Midnight Harvest Page 25
