The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  Then we walked down toward Mr. Wilson’s study. Finn was stunned into silence and I grinned at his awestruck countenance as we passed masterpieces by van Dyck, Rosa Bonheur, van Marcke, and C. E. Jacque. Finn was a lover of woodwork, so his eyes were drawn to the wood-paneled walls and interlaced wood-ribbed ceiling. Along the way, on our left, was a banister overlooking something. I walked over, and one story down was a full-fledged ballroom. I could easily imagine dances and soirees, loud music, chattering, and merrymaking long into the night.

  We got to Mr. Wilson’s study and walked into a masculine room of English burled oak that reminded me of Mr. Hambro’s. All along the walls just above eye level ran a ten-inch-tall molding. The carvings in the frieze depicted incidents in the life of Mr. Wilson. I looked closer and there were humorous carvings from childhood into college days and his career in the lumber business. And right in the middle at the back of the office by his desk was a darling carving of a tall man wearing a top hat, bending down to a diminutive woman half his size, kissing her hand. Their wedding. I looked over to Mrs. Wilson as I had been admiring it, and was pleased to see a smile and a small blush creep into her pale and sophisticated face. She was a distant sort of woman, but she loved her husband.

  “Oh, and you must see this, Lane. I think you’ll find it . . . interesting,” she said with a cryptic smile and keen glint in her eye. She had been using a well-versed tour guide tone up until this moment. Now she trained her penetrating gaze right at me. I looked over to Finn and received an eyebrow lift of support.

  Mrs. Wilson was standing by the back wall opposite the desk and without looking, she reached her hand back and pushed in the molding. A secret door opened and revealed a hidden spiral staircase.

  “Oh, my God.”

  She nodded, not taking her eyes off mine. “Familiar?”

  “My dad’s . . .”

  “Yes.”

  The stairs went up and down. The upper stairway led to Alfred’s bedroom. She led us downstairs. We got to the bottom level and walked into a masculine game room.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I exclaimed with all pretenses of formal behavior out the window.

  She laughed a tight, contained laugh. She finally divulged everything, “Oh Lane, Alfred and your father had been friends for years. I never met your parents—Alfred and I married in twenty-five. We came to know your aunt Evelyn . . . Goodness, how did I come to make her acquaintance? For the life of me I can’t remember; it feels like I’ve known her forever.”

  “She has that effect on people,” I said with a knowing look.

  “Anyway, we didn’t really plan this house thoroughly until our honeymoon as we traveled across Europe. But early on, apparently, Alfred talked about certain aspects of a future home with Matthew, certain aspects that Matthew had already incorporated and Alfred admired.”

  I supplied with a smile, “The secret staircase, the game room. . . .”

  “Mmm,” she replied in the affirmative with raised eyebrows.

  Alfred’s manly room was much larger, but pretty much identical to my father’s.

  Matilda led us out the door, and we were on level with the two-story ballroom. We walked across the hall to it and our eyes were drawn directly to another huge fireplace with crossed spears above, a mammoth tapestry and . . . and . . . There were just too many wonders to describe. I went right to the middle of the room and looked up at the ceiling far above us, and the cut-out openings that were like windows in the hallway of the main floor. I enjoyed a moment of conjuring ghosts of past parties here, with big bands playing and couples dancing the night away.

  We walked out of the ballroom to a hall that held the bathrooms and a fountain. She pulled open a small door and showed us a movie projector. “We have films brought in. For us, but the children specifically.”

  I remembered reading that many wealthy families would bring in entertainment rather than take their children out ever since the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. I thought of Frances, Daniel, Richard, and Barbara running around these fantastic grounds, always in the company—at all times—of a governess or guard. A life of incredible opportunity, but also a kind of imprisonment from the lack of anonymity.

  On our way back to the stairs I glanced at an enormous vault—worthy of a bank. Mrs. Wilson saw my head turn, obviously gawking.

  In response, she said, “Oh, we keep our guests’ valuables in there, our silver, and during Prohibition, well . . .” I was amused as her stoic face gave a shrug of her eyebrows with a slight eye roll. For her, it was quite an ostentatious display of emotion. I rolled my own eyes as it came to mind that the vault was probably another design element to which my father contributed.

  We joined the others back upstairs and had a wonderful time talking about the latest news from New York and the upcoming holidays; Mrs. Wilson would be going to New York soon to do her Christmas shopping. A servant came in to announce that dinner was served. We all started to walk down the long hallway. Finn and I were last in line, taking a small moment to look at each other in greeting. With no one looking, I put my arms around his waist for a quick embrace, enjoying the liberty of familiarity with him. We walked down the hall with his arm across my shoulders. We walked past Mr. Wilson’s study and I stole one more glance.

  I said quietly to Finn, “You know . . . have you taken a good look around my father’s study?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he said.

  “There is a lot of molding. That carved frieze in Mr. Wilson’s study makes me think we need to take a closer look at things.”

  “With the picture I’m gathering of your parents . . . Yes, we should most definitely take a closer look at that. At everything,” he said with an incredulous look.

  After dinner, we retired back to the parlor and Mr. Wilson surprised us by playing the organ—yes, they had an actual organ—that was at the back of the long living room. The hundreds of pipes were located directly underneath the organ, in the basement. The sound resonated through the room, our feet vibrating from the rumbling low notes. We sang Christmas carols and I enjoyed watching Mr. and Mrs. Wilson singing next to each other, her head barely coming near to his chest in height. After a long round of songs, a servant came in with a telegram on a silver salver. He brought it not to Mr. Wilson, but to Mr. Kirkland.

  My eyes flashed to Finn. He returned my apprehensive glance with a furrowed brow.

  I said quietly, “That seems rather ominous. . . .”

  Mr. Kirkland opened it and Mr. Wilson inquired, “Everything all right?”

  Mr. Kirkland handed it to Evelyn and said, “Well, it could be better, but nothing too dramatic. I do believe we should say our farewells, though.”

  We made a relatively quick departure, thanking our hosts for a delightful evening. Aunt Evelyn was able to smooth out our hasty good-byes with her consummate grace.

  I had forgotten my purse, and as I went quickly back to the parlor to retrieve it, I ran into Mr. Wilson. “I’m glad you came for dinner tonight, Lane.” He blinked, like he was trying to think of something. “You, ah, you look a lot like them, you know. Your parents.”

  “Thank you. I like hearing that,” I said.

  His earnest face blinked hard and a small smile crept out. “You’re welcome, Lane. Please. Come and visit us again.”

  I turned to leave, but then he said, “Ah, Lane. It occurs to me to tell you something.”

  I looked up at him. “Of course. What?”

  “Well, Lane. The year or so before your parents died, your father was having a very trying time with his uncle. He was a dangerous man and your mother wanted to trust him, but your father thought it would not be wise. He always had to talk in vague terms with me, but I suppose I was a good person to toss around ideas with. I have to say, being in lumber never looked simpler than when I talked with your father . . .”

  “I bet,” I said. “Well, I never knew much about my extended family other than Aunt Evelyn. I never heard of this uncle.” And then it hit me
. “Oh dear. Do you mean Uncle Louie?”

  “That’s it! That’s his name. Uncle Louie. I don’t know what they were involved in with him, but I would definitely say that your father thought he was a very dangerous man.”

  “Oh, he most definitely is that,” I said. “I wonder why my mom felt that he was trustworthy?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  We walked back to the entrance and then hurried out the door into the cold air, huffing and blowing. Back in Mr. Kirkland’s car, we were able to speak more freely. So I did. “What was that all about?”

  Mr. Kirkland said, “The telegram was from Fiorello.”

  Finn and I said a collective “Uh-oh.”

  “He received a red envelope.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Fio hadn’t said what the red envelope contained, but he asked us to return to New York as soon as possible.

  Back at the house, I decided I needed to perform a quick but thorough search to find anything that might help us. While Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn went out to check on returning to New York, despite the late hour, Finn and I split up. I knew where I was headed: right to my father’s study. I brought in a tall stepladder and looked at the top molding along the ceiling. It was oak, therefore the wood had a lot of grain versus a clearer wood like maple or pine, so any carvings wouldn’t be quite as obvious as it was at Meadow Brook Hall. But it was indeed carved just as Mr. Wilson’s office had been.

  As I studied the perimeter of the room, I saw that the curving floral vine carved into the molding was the same as the one that framed the portrait of me by the door to my father’s safe. Over and over, I climbed up the stepladder, studied the molding, got down, moved my ladder over, climbed up again, and made my way around the entire room. Within the vine work, sprinkled about the molding here and there was a lovely sword delicately intertwined with flowers and something else I needed Finn’s help with.

  I ran downstairs to find him. “Hey, Finn! Come up when you get a chance!”

  He came into the office right on my heels and said, “What is it? Did you find something?”

  I pointed out the floral vine that was the same as on my portrait. “And here is a sword scattered about. It’s the same sword around the room. But take a look at this.”

  “Is that a saying up there? I can barely make it out from here,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s Latin. It says ‘pulchritudo ex cinere,’” I read. I wasn’t exactly sure of the pronunciation but I think I got it close.

  “Well, I think pulchritudo means beauty. But I’m not sure of the rest,” he said.

  “I’ll look it up when we get home. And you know? Before we leave, I want to do one more thing. Will you help?”

  “Okay. Let’s go,” he said, ever ready for an adventure.

  We went downstairs and got on our coats and boots and I led him outside to my tree.

  “Can I get a boost?”

  After a lot of work, I got up into my perfect spot. It was pretty difficult with my bulky snow boots, much easier in sneakers in the summertime. I leaned back and thought a bit.

  “Needed one more time, huh?” Finn asked as he backed up and sat on a rock, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked up at me.

  “Yes!” I said, happily looking around. I got to thinking about our evening and the past few days, about my eccentric parents . . . So with me in my tree, and Finn sitting below, we took a good bit of time and discussed it all.

  “Well, love, at least we know where you got your imagination from,” he teased, his accent delicious.

  After a while of feeling like I was able to put a kind of bookend on my time here, I looked down. I tried to figure out how exactly I was going to get down from there. Finn saw me searching and came over to the tree, still smiling. “Here, love, I’ll give you a hand down.”

  But I was still quite a ways up. It wasn’t as easy as just getting a hold of his hand and jumping down. In my heavy snow boots, I couldn’t step around to that lower branch that I had sat upon the night before.

  “Uhhh . . .” I said, not too sure about that.

  “Here,” he said as he came under me and held up his arms.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, dubious.

  “Positive. Just hop down and I’ll catch you.”

  “Okay . . .” I shuffled to the edge. I didn’t think it looked as easy as he was making it out to be, but I figured that at least we had puffy jackets on to break our fall.

  And fall we did.

  I jumped. He caught me. But he completely underestimated the vigor with which I would jump; I really didn’t do anything by halves. His strong arms wrapped around me, but my momentum was considerable and I knocked him right over, falling on top of him. I was laughing but then I saw his face.

  “Get. Off me,” he gasped.

  “Oh shoot.” I had knocked the wind right out of him. I was half in horror, knowing exactly how that felt . . . and half wanting to laugh uncontrollably. My face was a contorted mask, being torn by two completely different emotions. I started to shake with trying not to laugh.

  He got his breath back. “Are you . . . laughing?”

  When we got back inside, we were covered head to toe in snow. A lively little snowball fight had taken place. Mr. Kirkland, just coming inside himself, watched us shaking snow all over the place as we took off our coats.

  “Jeez, you two are as bad as Ripley,” he muttered with a shake of his serious head. Finn and I grinned at each other.

  Later on, as we were warming ourselves by the fire, Aunt Evelyn and Mr. Kirkland came and sat down and surprised us with an announcement that we would not be taking the train back as planned, but an airplane the very next day. We would then get back to New York much more quickly and could get to Fio as fast as possible. Once we got back, the airport was out in Long Island, and we’d have a driver waiting for us there to take us the hour and a half back to the city. It would cut a lot of time off the journey. I was really excited about it. I had never traveled by plane before.

  An enormous yawn suddenly overtook me and my eyes watered with the effort. My yawn then traveled around the room.

  “All right, everyone,” declared Aunt Evelyn with a decisive clap. “We leave in the morning, so we better pack up and head to bed.” We all agreed with nodding heads and started to clean up and get ready. Mr. Kirkland and Evelyn went up the stairs while Finn and I finished neatening up the kitchen. We had so much to do, that we were a blur of activity, scurrying around doing this and that.

  I ended up by the curving front window in our living room. The snow had begun to fall again, in wisps and flurries. The moon was a glowing, perfect crescent when the clouds parted. I leaned against the windowsill and put one finger to the cold glass, drawing small vines and leaves in the fog my breath created. There was a lovely pine tree across the street and I liked the lines of it, the way the snow rested in layers upon its branches. I thought through these staggering days, the tumultuous emotions, and the fact that I had definitely won a kind of victory. Things were still confusing, the mystery still being worked out, but I was on the right track. And I felt more like me than I had in months. Possibly ever.

  I felt Finn’s presence more than I heard him. He was a large man, but unbelievably stealthy. Like a cat.

  “Getting one last view, Lane?”

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “It’s been great, but I’m ready to get home.”

  I heard him make a sound like a satisfied smile. He came up behind me and moved my hair from my shoulder and brought his lips to my neck. My arm went up and around his neck, leaning into him.

  Then the sound of bagpipes softly made their way through the crisp night air.

  “I think your new friend is giving us a send-off,” said Finn.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked. We stood by the window and soaked it all in, the deep blue and white of the glittering nighttime, the ancient music making the moment complete somehow.

  Our reverie was broken by brisk footsteps.
“All right, lovebirds! Off to bed with you!” chirped a businesslike Evelyn as she energetically jogged down the steps, bringing some coffee cups into the kitchen, running by us with a swish.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night I awoke already deep in thought as if part of my mind had been deliberating and calculating as I slept. What else was hidden in this mysterious house? My parents were crafty and they had a funny sense of humor that left me smirking on one hand, and pulling my hair out in frustration on the other. I wanted, no, I yearned to trust them. I felt better knowing that the date on the bridge was most likely marking Rutherford’s date of death, making it seem less likely that they were actual members of the Red Scroll.

  There was no one who was perfect, who made the right choice every single time; I was under no such delusion about the imperfection of my beloved and absent parents. The work they used to do was the work of visionaries who wanted to do something to make the world a better place. But espionage, no matter how well intended, required deception and a large dose of darkness for the ultimate greater good.

  What I wrestled with was how dark was too dark? How far would I be willing to go? The war took on greater proportions than the world had yet seen. And the excruciating, exhausting, never-ending saga of trench warfare was horrifying. In the light of such evil, I would be quite willing to do evil myself if it brought about a greater good for many. An entire generation of young men was almost wiped out. My parents found each other before the war, and they both made it out alive. Most were not so lucky.

  The fire crackled and I looked down at Finn, now sleeping with both arms behind his head, his long, muscled legs stretched out. In his sleep he had shuffled off a part of his blanket. The firelight glinted off the harsh scars covering his leg. His left knee was especially bad, and he’d told me it ached from time to time. I’d catch him massaging it once in a while when he thought I wasn’t looking. It made me want to help him; I wished I could heal those wounds. I knew it had to do with something his brother had engineered. And he’d had to work hard for years to build up those muscles and overcome the injuries.