a dozen in Washington. Little nymphs with an eye out for important men.”
Edward smiled.
“Yes. I mean you! Now more than ever!” Eithne broke off, aware that she had crossed into forbidden territory: Dr. Brandt had warned her not to remind Edward of his loss. “Don’t worry,” she said quickly, with an executive smile, “I’ll get rid of her.”
When the girl reappeared, wearing Eithne’s coat, Edward realized that she was indeed very pretty. He had seen girls like her in Ireland, with smudged-in, black-lashed gray eyes and flushed cheeks. Halfway down the stairs she paused to look at a painting . . . a misty river and a blurred moon . . . one of half a dozen small canvases banked on the stair wall. It was the briefest pause but it served to steady her for Eithne’s inspection.
“If you’re ready, Miss Donahue? Shall we go?”
Eithne kissed Edward’s cheek. “Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself. And let me know if you change your mind about staying here. You will! I give you a week at most!”
The girl hung back long enough to take Edward’s outstretched hand. “Goodbye. Look for my dog, won’t you? I’ll call tomorrow. And if you find him, I’ll come back for him. Remember, his name’s Murphy.”
“Murphy,” Edward repeated.
For a moment, clasping hands, they regarded each other. There were things the girl might have said . . . the usual, expected things. She didn’t say any of them, yet Edward had the impression that she was sorry for what had happened.
“I hope your friend’s going to be all right,” he said politely.
“He’s not my friend,” she said. “I met him in a bar day before yesterday. But Murphy is my friend! He’s big and silly and brave and full of love . . . Find him, please!”
It was probably a trick. A way of getting back to Easterly. And yet Edward lay awake listening for the barking of a dog. He found himself wondering whether there had been something sinister about the girl and her companion; they certainly weren’t reporters of the trench coat variety . . . Whatever their purpose, they had failed so far to hurt anyone but themselves. The village doctor had called back to say that the wounded man would recover but that he had had a close call. Who would be responsible for the expenses? And Edward had said promptly: “I will, of course. The accident happened on my property. They hit a rut as deep as an Alpine crevasse.” The doctor snorted and asked what they were doing that far off the highway and at that hour? “Were they after you, Edward? Ever since Kennedy’s death I’ve been concerned about you.” It was Edward’s turn to snort. “Me? Nonsense. No one wants to kill me.” The doctor remarked that this was perhaps so. “Not yet, perhaps. But in a year or so . . . Well, we’ll search the car in the morning. We might find evidence. I understand Eithne drove the girl back to New York. I hope she was smart enough to notify the police. This whole thing smells, Edward!”
“Did you?” Edward asked.
“Did I what?”
“Notify the police?”
“No. I confess I didn’t.”
“Then don’t. I came up here to get some peace.”
“Peace,” the doctor said, “isn’t likely. Not for you. A man who deliberately chooses to live the life of a public servant is grist for the mob’s mill. You should have known this when you entered politics.”
The doctor’s voice suggested that he was smiling a reluctant Down-East smile.
“I’ve known you since the day you were born, Edward. I slapped your bottom and swung you by your heels and started you on your way. At times I wish I hadn’t. At other times I’m glad I did. Once in a while you show signs of being the sort of timber we need.”
“Thanks,” Edward said. He was about to add that he no longer cared what timber was used or what was built . . . if anything! The habit of reticence persisted, however, and he said instead: “Let’s keep the police out of this, shall we?”
“Very well. If I can . . .”
The doctor broke off. And then, embarrassed by his own profound sympathy, he said awkwardly how sorry he had been to hear of Edward’s loss. “Call me if I can be of help. Are you alone out there?”
“Quite alone.”
“You were right to come to Easterly. The gale is strong, but here your roots go deep. Let’s hope they’ll serve to hold you steady.”
“Your roots go deep.” Edward thought that this might be true, although he had pulled his own roots free of Easterly easily enough when he was ready to explore the rest of the world. He thought now of the innumerable rooms along the wings, all of them kept as clean and polished as they were when the family lived here, and filled with inherited treasures . . . nothing ever to be discarded, sold, given away. To walk from room to room was like visiting a museum stocked with family treasures: relics of the early settlement, the Revolution, the Civil War and on through the Victorian to the hideous splendor of the Nineties. A Tiffany glass chandelier swung above a Chippendale dining-room table and a silver service said to have been designed by Paul Revere shared the sideboard with an array of L’Art Nouveau platters and candlesticks. Someone . . . Edward’s grandmother, perhaps . . . had had a passion for pincushions and these were still displayed in her bedroom, bristling like velvet and satin porcupines. Some member of the family had lived for a long time in Italy and had brought back a fine Venetian screen, pale silver-gold and green, and a set of Florentine chairs upholstered in worn ruby velvet. Books and paintings were everywhere. Bronzes and altar-lamps. Oriental rugs and brass fire screens and two magnificent Steinways standing back to back in the music room . . .
All of these things reflected a way of life, now as obsolete as the vast pantries where sets of Sevres and Haviland were stored behind glass, and crystal glittered obscurely on shelves that reached to the ceiling. Edward could remember the kitchen when two cooks ruled there . . . absolute sovereigns of their own territory. He could remember dinner-parties given by his grandmother, and served with a ritualistic formality that would seem wasted nowadays . . . so much effort to create a mood as impermanent as smoke! Where were the lace covers and doilies and gigantic embroidered napkins now? Stored away in drawers, turning faintly yellow with lack of use . . . And upstairs there were closets and cupboards filled with linen sheets, blankets, cases, stack upon stack, all neatly folded and tied with satin ribbons, never to know sunlight or fresh air again . . .
Edward had inherited all of these things; they belonged to him and not to Eithne, who had exchanged her interest in the estate for the greater security of a trust. Tax-wise, Easterly had eaten into Edward’s fortune, but for some reason . . . sentimental perhaps . . . he hadn’t sold it. He wondered, now, whether he ever would, or whether he’d settle down here “in the tradition.” The phrase made him smile in the dark. As a tradition, Easterly belonged to a past already remote. It projected a musty image in spite of its order and shine and elegance. A contemporary tradition was in the making. What would Easterly appear to be to those destined to look back at it fifty years from now? It had seemed beautiful to those who built and furnished it, and they themselves had seemed impressive, important, enviable. Would today’s cubes of steel and glass come to mean “home” to the next generation? Or would they be bulldozed out of existence before they had had time to take on the patina of this century? Edward had gone along with the modern; he was not a carper given to indiscriminate criticism of anything new. Things happening today had always stimulated him because they were unfamiliar. Why, then, had he returned
