April of Enchantment

by Jennifer Blake

  The ceilings of the lower floor of Crapemyrtle were twenty feet high. Since this was two and one half times higher than normal, modern ceilings, it took a stepladder fourteen feet tall, and a great deal of courage, to come close to the plaster medallions that centered every room. Laura had arranged to have the stepladder delivered earlier in the week. It had been placed in the front parlor, but not set up. Now, by main strength and teeth-gritting effort, she jockeyed it into place in the middle of the room without scarring the floors. Standing it up, she opened it out and pushed it directly under the medallion.

  Overwarm from her exertions, she took off her coat and laid it to one side, then went to retrieve her camera, note pad, pen, and a carpenter's folding ruler from her tote bag. With these in hand, she began the shaky climb up the tall ladder.

  Standing three steps down from the top of the ladder for balance and bracing meant that with her five feet and five inches of height she was still nearly three feet beneath the medallion. Even raising her arms as far as possible above her head, she could not touch it. It would have to do, however. At this distance from the floor, she could not afford to risk ascending to the very top step. If she fell, it would be nearly the equivalent of pitching from the top of a modern two-story building. Looking down made Laura feel a little dizzy. She did her best, then, to keep her attention well above floor level. She placed her pad, pen, and ruler on the top of the ladder, readied her instant developing camera, and began to snap pictures of the medallion. As the camera ejected the prints, she placed them in a row, waiting for them to grow clearer. It was important that she get a good clear shot of every detail. The medallion, with its swirling acanthus-leaf design, did not look that large from below, but seen this close, it was enormous. It was only as she undertook a task like this that the gigantic proportions of these old houses were brought home to her. These double parlors, for instance, when the huge sliding panels that divided them were thrown open, made a room twenty-five feet wide and fifty feet long, suitable for a large party or a ball. There were houses in many of the suburbs of the United States with fewer square feet.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  As the harsh words rang out, Laura turned her head sharply. That sudden movement on her precarious perch was enough to affect her balance. She wavered and bent quickly to catch the top step. Her camera flew out of her hand, and she watched hopelessly as it tumbled downward.

  It never struck the floor. Justin moved with incredible swiftness to catch it, then stood weighing it in his hand.

  “What do you think you're doing?” Laura flung his own words back at him. “Sneaking up behind me like that? This is the second time, too. Is it just a bad habit of yours, or do you get a charge out of scaring the wits out of people?”

  “Sorry,” he answered, his tone mild. “I had no idea you meant to do anything like this. I was so surprised to see you up there, I didn't think.”

  His matter-of-fact apology was disconcerting. Laura stared down at his upturned face a long instant. Her voice stiff, she said, “If you really want to know what I'm doing, I'm taking the specifications on this medallion.”

  “Why? For what reason?”

  “There is supposed to be one just like it in the second parlor, but at some time it was either removed or else it fell from the ceiling, probably when the chandelier that hung from it was removed, when all the rest were stripped from the house. There are companies that still make medallions to order using the old patterns. It's possible they may have a mold Just like this one. At any rate, I intend to take the pictures and measurements to them to find out.”

  “What happens if they don't have a mold.”

  “In that case, a polyester cast will have to be made, and the company will construct a special mold to duplicate it.”

  He considered that a moment. “Do you have all the pictures yon need?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she answered, glancing down at the prints spread on the steps. They seemed to be a complete representation of the medallion overhead. “I still have to take the measurements.”

  “Come down and let me do it,” he said, a peremptory note in his voice.

  “No thank you. I can manage.” She straightened with the ruler in her hand, unfolding it as she spoke.

  “I would rather you didn't break your neck while I'm watching.”

  “May I remind you,” she answered, her tone stringent, “that this is my job. You can hold the ladder, if you like. I seem to remember warning you of the possibility of being drafted for that.”

  It was a moment before he answered, and then his voice was stiff. “Do you have paper and something to write with up there?”

  “Of course,” she snapped.

  “Throw them to me, and I'll take down the measurements as you call them out.”

  It was a sensible suggestion, since it would prevent her from having to bend and straighten again and again as she jotted down the figures each time. Also, it would speed the task, an important consideration. Without her coat, and as still as she was having to remain, she was beginning to feel the cold. Already, the ends of her fingers were growing numb. She waited until he had put the camera to one side on the floor, then clipped the pen to her pad and dropped it to him.

  “About this polyester cast, do you consider making it a part of your job, too?”

  “Yes,” she flung the word over her shoulder as she strained upward, stretching as high as she could, trying to hold the ruler level and steady as she lined it up with the outermost edges of the medallion. She called down the diameter in inches and in centimeters, and he jotted them on the pad.

  “I hate to point out the obvious,” he said, “but you look as if your ladder is going to be a little short to take an impression.”

  “A painter's scaffold will have to be brought in, or else a special one built for the house. It will be needed anyway to clean and repair the ceiling and cornice moldings.”

  “I see,” he said, and lapsed into silence.

  A few more measurements, and she was done. Laura closed the ruler, gathered up her prints, and began her descent. When she was halfway down, she noticed that Justin had moved to the step side of the ladder, to steady it. She could feel his black gaze upon her as she felt for each step with her booted foot. A woman coming down a staircase might be a graceful and romantic sight, but neither element was present in a woman coming backward down a ladder. Despite her self-consciousness, Laura's lips twitched in wry amusement. She didn't care whether he saw her as graceful and romantic, so long as he found her competent.

  She was only a few feet from the bottom when it happened. The pictures she was holding were still slightly tacky from the developing process. She had been trying to keep them separated, holding them fanned out like a deck of cards. It wasn't easy to do while keeping a firm grasp on the ladder. The corner of one picture hit a step and flipped from her grasp, fluttering downward. Automatically, she grabbed for it, resting her weight on one foot. The smooth leather sole of her boot slipped, her numb fingers would not hold, and in an instant, she was falling.

  She came up hard against a broad chest. Strong arms held her breathlessly close. There was smooth suede under her cheek, and she was enveloped in warmth scented with the smell of leather and the tang of a spicy after-shave. It was a haven where she was safe, at rest.

  “Are you all right?” The deep voice came from just above her head.

  She stirred a little, because it seemed required. Tilting her head backward, she stared up into the bronze face of the man who held her. There were gold flecks in the depths of his eyes, she discovered. His brows were thick and wiry with a tendency to curl, and the hair that sprang from his forehead had a crisp vitality that seemed to suit him. The cleft in his chin was deep and blue-shadowed, and she wondered with complete irrelevance if it was difficult to shave.

  “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

  “N-no,” she answered. To prove it, she pushed away from him, standing on her own feet. He did not
release her at once, but held her steady, his hands resting on her forearms as if reluctant to relinquish their grasp.

  “Good,” was all he said.

  Laura managed a shaky smile. “I knew you would be handy as an assistant.”

  Slow amusement rose into his eyes. “At least you seem to have a good idea of exactly what you might need.”

  He was an attractive man when he was frowning; when he smiled, he was devastating. Laura permitted her lashes to shield her expression. “Yes, wasn't that lucky?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she swung away, glancing at her wristwatch. The half-hour he had suggested before they parted was over. It must have taken her longer than she had thought to arrange the ladder in position. She picked up the snapshot she had dropped, as well as her camera. Moving to push them into her tote, she said, “I'm ready to go when you are.”

  The tightness was back in his voice as he indicated the door. “I've already locked up. Shall we?”

  3

  Justin's classic car purred like a powerful cat. It was impressively luxurious, with seats of buttery-soft leather and whipcord, and fittings of a gold-colored metal. If he was conscious of the uniqueness of the automobile he drove, however, he gave no sign, using neither greater nor lesser care than he might have with any other. He lounged behind the wheel with relaxed control, his strong brown hands firm upon its leather cover, and his eyes on the road ahead.

  “What kind of car is this?” she asked, as much for something to say as from curiosity.

  He sent her a brief glance. “A 1940 Lincoln Zephyr Continental.”

  “I've never ridden in one quite like it before.”

  “There were only a little over four hundred of them built.”

  There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he expected her to be impressed by that statistic; still, she was. “It's fabulous.”

  He did not answer. They rode a short distance in silence, then he sent her a searching glance.

  “I believe I mentioned that we needed to talk. There are one or two things that should be set straight.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but what I suggested is a trial for you, and when I say a trial, I mean just that.”

  “If you are saying that you reserve the right to ask for my dismissal if I don't prove satisfactory, I understand.”

  She had been expecting something similar. There was no point in arguing with him any longer. He held the whip hand according to Russ, and she might as well recognize it.

  “There is another point. I am also going to ask that if you run into special problems, anything that causes you the least doubt, you will call in qualified experts.”

  “I don't mind that at all. As a matter of fact, I've already arranged for professional analysts to come in and record the layers of paint all over the house.”

  “The paint?” His eyes narrowed as he turned his head to consider what she was saying.

  “That's right. Samples will be taken and important colors recorded by the Munsell system.”

  “Is that important?”

  “It's crucial,” she said seriously. “Removing the paint layers before analysis can be a disaster on a restoration. Actually, the more layers that encrust a building, the better. Analyzing them can not only show the original colors, but can determine later additions to a house or verify a puzzling point in its architecture.”

  “How so?”

  “There have been definite vogues in paint colors over the years, and in paint compounds. Before the Industrial Revolution, in the Southern United States that means before the Civil War, there were limited pigments in use, and most of them were in subdued shades. Afterward, there was a much wider and more vivid variety of colors, since they could be compounded from chemicals and prepared with machines.”

  He thought a moment. “Say the rooms in a house were originally painted a soft shade, maybe a gray, then later the house was remodeled and a storage cabinet, for instance, added in a back room and the whole thing painted yellow. Now, eighty or ninety years later, we see that the storage cabinet never had a coat of gray, and we know it wasn't original, regardless of how many more times the entire room has been painted over.”

  “That's the idea.”

  “On the question of dating structural changes, I wanted to ask your opinion of the loggia on the back of the house. At present it's enclosed with window walls and a set of French windows that gives access to the back steps. Do you think it was always like that?”

  “I would doubt it,” Laura answered slowly, “though it's hard to be certain. The Greek Revival style was an early influence in the South, and elsewhere, of course; there are examples that date back to the eighteenth century, an attempt by our ancestors to copy the ideals of ancient Greece, as set forth by the new Constitution, in their homes. The temple look, however, was grafted onto a Georgian interior in most cases.”

  “A floor plan where all rooms open off wide central halls both upstairs and down?”

  “Exactly. The fanlighted doors on both floors are also Georgian details. Then, in this area, this Greek Revival-Georgian hybrid ran into the French-Creole style of building, or what some people call the West Indies Planter's style. The main difference between them is the floor plan. In the French-Creole style, there are no hallways. All rooms, both upstairs and down, open into each other, and each in turn has access to the outside galleries. If every door in the house is thrown open, hurricane-strength winds to the slightest summer breeze can blow through it. There are other differences, but like Crapemyrtle, the galleries extended around the front and both sides, while the back was enclosed on each end, sometimes by small rooms, sometimes by no more than an arrangement of blinds to create sleeping porches. This left an open space in the middle that was called a loggia. Since it was enclosed on all but one side, it had greater protection from the elements, and was used as a winter sitting area on bright days.”

  “You think that the loggia at Crapemyrtle was a French-Creole influence, then, and was originally open?”

  “That's right. It makes sense, doesn't it, considering the nationality of your ancestors?”

  He gave a slow nod. “The question is, when was it enclosed?”

  “That one isn't so easy,” Laura admitted. “Until we get the result of the paint analysis, it will be difficult to tell. It's remotely possible that the wife of the builder was sensitive to drafts and that it was closed in from the beginning. Or it may happen that the improvement was added later, during a good year for crops. There was a bumper sugarcane harvest in this part of Louisiana in the 1858-59 season, and then again in 1861-62. Like people today, the planters were seldom satisfied with a house once it was built.”

  “If we find that the loggia was enclosed fifteen years or more after initial construction, what then?”

  “It depends on what you want,” Laura said, her violet eyes serious. “Restoration can be approached from several different angles. A house can be put back exactly as it was the day the original builder left the site, which means that all bathrooms and kitchens have to be torn out, every later addition stripped away, and the original colors and details replaced. What remains may be accurate and of great historical interest both for scholars and for tourists, a museum piece, but according to modern standards, it won't be livable, much less comfortable. On the other hand, a house can be redone to reflect its most opulent or beautiful period. San Francisco, a famous restoration a few miles from here, was restored to the period, not of the original construction, but of fifteen to twenty years later, when several marvelous painted ceilings were added.”

  “That's all very interesting,” he drawled, “but it doesn't tell me what you think I should do with my loggia.”

  Laura smiled in wry agreement. “I'm trying to tell you that it's a value judgment, one only you can make. The loggia is structurally sound. The window wall doesn't distract from the aesthetic appeal of the house, and it does add a certain protection for the
gallery floor there and for the rear wall of the house, plus an insulation factor for the rooms on the back. The only question is what you, as the owner, want.”

  “I'm anxious to retain as much as possible of the historical integrity of the house, but again, it's supposed to be a home, a place where I can raise my family, not a tourist attraction.”

  “In that case, perhaps your fiancée should have a say in the decision,” Laura said carefully.

  “Myra? I doubt it will matter to her one way or the other.”

  “Isn't she interested?” Laura slanted him a quick glance, surprised at the indifference of his tone, wondering if he really had so little idea of what the other woman was planning.

  “I've seen no sign of it.”

  “When I spoke to her earlier, she mentioned a few ideas she had for changes.”

  “Did she?”

  Silence descended, underscored by the rich hum of the car's engine. Laura stared ahead through the windshield. She could not make up her mind whether to mention the game room and pool to him. Myra had said she had told him about them, but either he did not remember or else the woman had lied. Regardless, until she heard his opinion of the plans, she would be no closer to knowing what he meant to do about the modern additions Myra wanted.

  “If it was your house, your preference,” Justin said, his dark gaze intent, “what would you do?”

  Laura considered, her head tilted to one side. “I think I would prefer to have the loggia open. It would give more light in the hallways and allow air to sweep down them the way I am almost certain it did originally. According to the diary, the women of the house used to sit in the upper loggia in the fall and watch the crops being harvested in the fields. Nothing was mentioned about watching through the windows.”

  “I see. This diary sounds more interesting all the time. Now that we have settled the question of your staying on, I wonder if you would mind letting me see it.”