Illuminated (8 page)

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Authors: Erica Orloff

BOOK: Illuminated
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“Calliope, you’re Harry’s niece?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Call me Miriam. Do you two take milk with your tea? Or cream? I even have soy milk.”
“I just take honey,” I said.
“Just sugar for me,” August replied.
“All right then.” She turned to open a pantry door. “I have tea biscuits. Now where are they? Oh ... here.”
She emerged from the pantry with a box of biscuits, which she opened and arranged on a porcelain plate painted with violets along the edges.
She sat down at the table. “I talked to Harry briefly, but he didn’t tell me anything. This is about the book, isn’t it?”
August nodded. “Yes.”
“The Book of Hours?”
“Yes,” I said softly.
Her face was unlined, and her cheekbones and graceful neck made her look much younger than what August and I had calculated her to be—seventy. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke of the book.
“You’ve seen it?” she asked hopefully, twisting her long fingers around a cloth napkin she’d put beside her plate.
I nodded.
She dropped the cloth and clasped her hands to her breast. “I thought . . .” Then she put her face in her hands and softly cried.
August and I exchanged glances. He stood and put a hand on her shoulder. “We didn’t mean to upset you. Your former butler told us to call. He said you would want to know.”
She stared up at August gratefully, “No, you don’t understand. These are happy tears. I’ve waited years to know my book, the Book of Hours, the book of A., was safe.”
My heart pounded. Now I understood how Uncle Harry and Dr. Sokolov felt. It really was like playing detective.
“It’s safe,” I said softly. “I’ve
seen
it. We both have.”
She smiled. “You probably think I’m foolish. It’s a book. Just a book. But A. . . . he had a way of making me believe in love.”
7
 
Midnight greets my dreams of her.
—A.
 
 
T
he teakettle whistled, and, wiping her eyes, Miriam went to the stove and filled our cups with boiling water. When she sat down again, she said, simply, “I suppose you’ve come all this way in this terrible storm to hear the story.”
We nodded in unison. I was growing more and more devoted to the book. To A. And to August.
“Well,” Miriam sighed, stirring her tea, “then it’s just as well the storm is here. Might as well settle in and tell you.”
August sipped his tea, then said, “Thank you. We really do want to know. Did you know it was a palimpsest? You must have, because you know about A.”
“I did know. Though not at first.”
“You understand how rare it is, I guess. A palimpsest.”
“Yes, I do. And how it came to me . . . I suppose it starts all the way back. To my wedding. My honeymoon. And shortly after.”
“We saw your wedding picture on the Internet,” I said.
She smiled ruefully. “Such a naïve young girl, I was. My husband spotted me working in Wanamaker’s. They don’t even
have
Wanamaker’s anymore. But it was an incredible store back then. I worked at the scarf and glove counter, and this elegant man—older than I was—came in wanting a pair of leather gloves. I remember specifically. He wanted kid leather, soft, in a deep brown.”
She laughed quietly. “Like any impressionable girl with no money and big dreams, I was swept off my feet. But Thomas A. Rose wasn’t just any man. He was old money. Ruthless money. I didn’t know what I was getting into. Not at all. I only knew that suddenly, I was going to the theater and the ballet, was being invited to balls, and was dressing in couture. Our wedding was
the
social event of the year, including a fake biography for me and my parents, which implied my mother and father were of European royalty. Nothing could have been further from the truth. My father was a tailor. But his impeccable suits and elegant manners helped us carry off the deception. However, people still whispered about me behind my back.”
Miriam was so nice. I hated the idea of people gossiping about her. There was a “mean girls” pack at my school, and I couldn’t stand the way they were nice to people’s faces but then turned right around and said the ugliest thing. “I’m sorry. They were just jealous, I bet.”
“Maybe. They said I was a showgirl, which was . . . well, in
those
days it implied I was a woman of ill repute. But I held my head high, and after a time the rumors stopped.”
I held on to my teacup, afraid to breathe. Afraid to interrupt her.
“Of course, I think Thomas just wanted to
acquire
me, as one acquires a thoroughbred horse. For some time, he spoiled me. I indeed had horses out on our Long Island estate. We had dozens of them and a full-time trainer. I had an apartment on Park Avenue, with accounts at every store a woman could possibly care to spend money at.” She laughed.
“I had jewelry, most of which sits in a box upstairs. I had a famous ruby necklace.”
“We saw it in a picture,” I said.
“Yes.
That one
I sold at Christie’s. I just have no occasion or reason to wear something like that. But I had, most of all, unending time on my hands.”
“You must have been bored,” August said.
“Oh, I was. Hopelessly bored. Even when I was just a glove and scarf clerk, I read voraciously. I thirsted for knowledge. I wanted someday to go to college, but once I met Thomas, he thought that was out of the question. Whatever for, he would ask me?” She stopped.
“Miriam, what is it?” August asked softly.
“I really
must
be very lonely, with only my dog for companionship. Here I am blathering on to you two, when you really just want to know about the book.”
“No, no!” I said right away. “Really, tell us the whole story.” I was fascinated—her life, it was like a movie, only real.
“Anyway, on our honeymoon, we had traveled to Europe, and for the first time, I saw convents and cathedrals, museums that weren’t just housing old paintings, but were older than the paintings themselves. I loved it. And by the time I was home and ensconced on the boards of various museums, and largely ignored by my husband, I wanted to do something more than be a lady of leisure.”
“What did your husband say?” I asked.
“Well, I later found out that he had never stopped frequenting some . . . lady friends. Never. So I think he was happy to have that beautiful doll—the perfectly clothed little creature in his tower—and that she had something to do other than question him about his whereabouts after work.”
I wondered about my dad and mom. She was beautiful, and Uncle Harry said she had hated some of my father’s expectations of her as the wife of a powerful attorney. And then there was the endless parade of girlfriends since she died.
A crack of lightning illuminated the sky outside. It sounded like it was right above us.
Miriam glanced heavenward. “Makes you wonder if A. doesn’t want his story told.” She looked at me and winked.
“You said ‘he,’” August said. “You know A. is a he?” He gave me a look that said,
I told you so.
“Yes. And even if he’s a little upset, I’ll tell the story anyway. Maybe he’s impatient! Maybe he wants it told right now. I happened to be acquiring art for our summer home—a huge mansion out here on Long Island that Thomas still owns. Well, now my son own it,” she corrected herself. “It’s over in the Hamptons. Maybe a half mile from Billy Joel’s place. Anyway, Thomas had been rather impressed that three paintings I asked him to purchase tripled in value rather quickly. So he allowed me to go to art auctions on my own.” She smiled ruefully. “Not truly alone, mind you. I attended with a gentleman from his accounting firm, who authorized my purchases. But the decisions were my own. Soon, we had one of the most talked-about collections in all of New York. Thomas enjoyed being talked about. He enjoyed the prestige our collection afforded him. And it was on one of my hunts that I saw the auction of my first illuminated manuscripts.”
“That’s what Uncle Harry does,” I said. “Did you meet him then?”
She laughed. “Your uncle Harry isn’t quite that old, dear. But like your Harry I was completely infatuated with illuminated manuscripts. They’re extraordinary, really. Did you know that monks originally created many of them, but as the Middle Ages wore on, many of the painters were women, particularly in Paris? That appealed to me. I guess I was developing a new dream of freedom, and the manuscripts represented that to me. They were exquisite.”
I looked over at August. “I didn’t know that the painters were women. Did you?”
August nodded then turned back to Miriam. “And you were interested in the Gothic period, right?”
My eyes widened. Uncle Harry was right. August was really, really smart.
She nodded. “Wise, my dear August. You know your subject matter. Yes. Like many collectors, I wanted a collection that was specialized, and so the Gothic period became my area of expertise. And as Thomas and I led increasingly separate lives, it seemed to be with an understanding that I didn’t ask about his young friends. And he opened his checkbook for my collection.”
I finished sipping the last of my tea. Miriam noticed and said, “Come, let’s go to the living room. There’s a beautiful view of the water; even in this storm, it’ll be lovely. We can talk more there, and I can show you my photos of the hunt for the Book of Hours.”
She stood, and August and I followed her. He brushed his hand against mine as we walked, and I ached to hold it.
Her living room was decorated with overstuffed chairs covered in Shabby Chic–type fabrics. The coffee table and end tables were piled high with books, and mason jars were filled with shells, sand, starfish, and sea glass—there was even one jar with old buttons and one with Scrabble letter tiles.
It was a very big room, but the way she had arranged the furniture and the lamps, and even the framed prints of beach scenes on the walls, made it seem cozy. August and I sat on the long sofa, and she sat on a large chaise lounge covered with pillows next to us. I shivered slightly; the soaking we’d had must have chilled me more than I knew.
“Here, Calliope.” She leaped up and handed me a thick quilt that had been folded on an ottoman. “You must be freezing. And I know just the thing.” She walked over to a pass-through glass and white-stone fireplace, pressed a button, and a gas fire sprang to life, blue and white flames licking ceramic logs.
I pulled the quilt up and spread it over my legs. She returned to her chaise and pulled a heavy scrapbook from the end table next to it. She set it on her lap and inhaled as if contemplating whether or not even to open it.
“I haven’t looked inside this scrapbook since I moved here. Maybe it hurt too much.” She opened the cover.
“It’s full of memories of the hunt for the book. I first heard about this particular illuminated manuscript while researching the love story of Heloise and Abelard.”
“Who were they?” I asked.
She smiled at me. “Probably two of the world’s most infamous star-crossed lovers. Tragic figures. Hopelessly intellectual. Somewhat forgotten, I suppose. But not by everyone.”
I curled my knees up under me. August moved his hand to rest on my thigh. I put my hand on his.
“Heloise was born in 1101, and she was a brilliant young girl. She was the ward of her uncle, Fulbert, who was a canon in the church. Recognizing her gifted mind, he allowed her to be schooled—something quite rare for the time. You can understand why her story then fascinated me. I saw myself in Heloise. I was a young girl hungering for education in books and art. She was, too. I just . . . have you ever related to someone from history?”
I nodded. “I went through a Madame Curie phase in fourth grade. I had a microscope and slides—my bathroom was my lab.”
August smiled at me. “That is really cute! I went through a major Charles Darwin phase in first grade—that was the start of my finch collection. I wanted to sail to the Galápagos.”
Miriam nodded. “So you do understand. For me, it was Heloise. And I was well past elementary school,” she joked.
“Heloise wasn’t known as the most beautiful girl, but she was very smart. She wrote beautifully, was a scholar of Latin and Greek. Even Hebrew. And Fulbert allowed her to be tutored by Peter Abelard, himself a
brilliant
man. He was of noble birth and could have lived in great wealth, but chose philosophy and a more austere, scholarly life. He found her mind extraordinary. They fell in love, pupil and tutor. And a torrid affair blossomed.”
I glanced at August. He was as riveted by Miriam’s story as I was.
“What Peter loved most was her mind. And here I was, loved for my beauty by my husband, but ignored for my mind. I had dreams of a love like that. A soul mate.” I understood what she meant. Wanting a soul mate, someone who understood you, all of you. I caught August’s eye, then turned away.

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