She took the book from Braeden and kept reading. It explained that otets was the formal way a child would address a parent in public. But the more intimate way, used only within the family, was the word batya, which translated roughly to “daddy” or “papa.”
She frowned in confusion.
They were the same age and completely unrelated. Why in the world would Mr. Thorne repeatedly address Mr. Rostonov as his papa?
As Serafina and Braeden crawled back into the ventilation system, she asked, “Do you know all the gentlemen who are currently guests at Biltmore?”
“I’ve met most of them,” Braeden said as he closed up the vent cover behind them, “but not all of them.”
“Do you know which rooms they’re staying in?” she asked as they made their way on their hands and knees along the shaft back toward his bedroom.
“The guests are on the third floor. Servants live on the fourth.”
“But do you know the specific rooms?”
“I know some of them. My aunt put Mr. Bendel in the Raphael Room. The Brahmses are in the Earlom Room and Mr. Rostonov is in the Morland Room. It goes on and on. Why?”
“I have an idea. If the Man in the Black Cloak is one of the gentlemen at Biltmore, then he needs to store his cloak someplace when he’s not using it. I’ve checked the closets and coatrooms on the first floor, but I want to check the bedrooms, too.”
“You want to sneak into people’s private bedrooms?” Braeden asked hesitantly.
“They won’t know,” Serafina pointed out. “As long as we’re careful, they won’t catch us.”
“But we’ll be looking through their private belongings.…”
“Yes, but we need to help Clara and the others. And we need to stop the Man in the Black Cloak from doing this again.”
Braeden pursed his lips. He didn’t like this idea. “Isn’t there some other way?”
“We just need to look,” she said.
Finally, he nodded his head.
Serafina followed Braeden along the shaft. Mr. Vanderbilt had called in private detectives, who now stood guard at various points in the corridors of the house. As long as they stayed in the ventilation system they were safe, but moving through the other parts of the house unseen was going to be far more difficult than before.
Serafina could tell that all the searches and the presence of the detectives weren’t bringing solace to Biltmore’s anxious inhabitants. She sensed that both the guests and the servants were losing hope. From what she overheard people saying to one another, there was an increasing sense that the children weren’t just missing but dead. She had to defend her own heart from the same terrible conclusion. She’d seen them vanish, but her pa had told her that everyone had to be someplace. Even dead bodies had to be someplace. We’ve got to keep looking, she kept telling herself. We can’t give up. We’ve got to help them. But when the members of the various search parties began to return without any sign of the children, people were more disheartened than ever.
Serafina and Braeden snuck into the Raphael Room and looked through Mr. Bendel’s belongings.
“Mr. Bendel is always so cheerful,” Braeden said. “I don’t see how he could have hurt anyone.”
“Just keep looking,” she whispered, determined to stay focused.
She found all sorts of expensive clothing in Mr. Bendel’s finely decorated traveling chests, including many stylish gloves and a long, dark gray cloak, but it wasn’t the Black Cloak.
Next, they checked the Van Dyck Room, with its finely detailed terra-cotta-colored wallpaper, its dark mahogany furniture, and many paintings hanging by wires on the walls. “Mr. Thorne has always been very kind to me,” Braeden said. “I don’t see how it could possibly be him.”
Ignoring him, Serafina searched the room as thoroughly as she could, digging through all of the old chests that he’d left unlocked. She found no trace of the cloak.
“You like him too much,” she said as she searched under the mahogany bed.
“I do not,” Braeden protested.
“We’ll see.”
“He saved Gidean’s life when Mr. Crankshod was going to kill him with an ax,” Braeden said.
Serafina frowned. In Braeden’s mind, the man who saved his dog could do no wrong. When they heard someone coming, they darted back into the ventilation shaft as quickly as they could.
“I don’t think it’s any of the gentlemen at Biltmore,” Braeden said as they made their way to the next room. “It must be some kind of demon from the forest like we were talking about before, or maybe it’s a stranger from the city who isn’t known to us.”
Serafina agreed that the lack of clues was discouraging, but there were still at least a dozen more rooms to check. They moved on to the Sheraton Room and the Old English Room.
When they searched the Morland Room, she looked into each of Mr. Rostonov’s beautiful, hand-painted traveling cases. Her heart filled with sadness when she found a chest filled with lovely Russian dresses. They were such amazing gowns, with deep frills and exotic patterns.
“It doesn’t feel right to be here,” Braeden said uncomfortably.
As they were crawling through a shaft to the next room, they heard several women talking in a hallway on the level below. They shinnied down a shaft to get a closer look.
“That’s my aunt’s room,” Braeden said nervously.
“Let’s stay quiet…” Serafina whispered, then peered through a grate to look into the room.
When Serafina looked down into Mrs. Vanderbilt’s room, she beheld the glittering purple-and-gold French-style bedroom, with its elegant, curvy furniture and fancifully trimmed mirrors. She thought it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen. It wasn’t rectangular in shape like a normal room, but oval. The gold silk walls, the bright windows, and even the delicately painted doors were curved along the lines of the oval. The bed coverings, draperies, and furniture upholstery were all finely cut purple velvet. The room positively glowed with sunlight, and she would have loved to curl up on Mrs. Vanderbilt’s bed. She was just about to suggest to Braeden that they risk climbing into the room when Braeden grabbed her arm.
“Wait. There’s my aunt,” he said as Mrs. Vanderbilt came slowly into the room, followed by her lady’s maid and her household assistant.
“These are such lonely and frightening times,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said with sadness. “I would like to do something for the families, something to bring everyone together and strengthen our spirits. This evening, we’ll gather in the Banquet Hall at seven o’clock. The electric lighting still isn’t working, so stoke up the fires and bring in as many candles and oil lamps as you can. Arrange it with the kitchen so that we can provide everyone with something to eat. It won’t be a formal sit-down dinner or any sort of party, mind you; it’s just not the appropriate time for that, but we must do something.”
“I’ll go down to the kitchens and talk to the cook,” her assistant said.
“I think it’s important that we gain the comfort of spending some time together, whether we’re frightened, grieving, or still holding on to hope,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said.
“Yes, ma’am,” her lady’s maid said.
Serafina thought it was kind of Mrs. Vanderbilt to arrange the gathering.
It was well known at Biltmore that Mrs. Vanderbilt liked to learn the names and faces of all the children of both the guests and servants, and when Christmas came, she and her lady’s maid would go shopping in Asheville and the surrounding villages and buy each one of the children a special gift. Sometimes, if she heard that a child wanted a particular present that wasn’t available in the area, Mrs. Vanderbilt would send away to New York for it, and it would miraculously arrive a few days later on the train. On Christmas morning, she would invite all the families to gather around the Christmas tree, where she would hand each child his or her gift: a porcelain-faced doll, a soft toy bear, a pocketknife—it all depended on the child. Serafina remembered her own Christmas mornings, sitting in th
e basement, curled up on the stone floor at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the children laughing and playing with their toys above her.
Over the next few hours, the word spread, and the guests and servants began preparing for the upcoming gathering.
“My aunt and uncle are going to want me to be there, so I’ve got to go,” Braeden said glumly. “I wish you could come with me. You must be as hungry as I am.”
“I’m starving. It’s going to be in the Banquet Hall, right? I’ll be there in spirit. Just don’t let anyone play the pipe organ,” Serafina said.
“I’ll sneak you some food,” he said as they parted.
While Braeden went to his bedroom to dress for the gathering, Serafina snuck into position. She moved through the secret passages behind the upper levels of the organ that she’d learned about from Mr. Pratt and Miss Whitney. There she hid in the organ loft, among the seven hundred brass pipes, some reaching five, ten, twenty feet in height. From here she had a wonderful bird’s-eye view of the room.
The Banquet Hall was the largest room she’d ever laid eyes on, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling high enough for a hawk to soar in. Rows of flags and pendants hung down from above, like the throne room of an ancient king. The stone walls were adorned with medieval armor, crossed spears, and rich tapestries that looked extremely old but well worth climbing someday. In the center of the room there was a massively long oak dining table ringed with hand-carved chairs intended for the Vanderbilts and sixty-four of their closest friends. But tonight, no one was sitting at the table. The servants had laid it out with a cornucopian buffet of food. In addition to the selection of roast beef, brook trout, chicken à l’orange, endless trays of vegetables, and rosemary potatoes au gratin, there were all sorts of chocolate desserts and fruit tarts. The pumpkin pie, like all pumpkin pie, looked like something a dog would eat, but the whipped Chantilly cream on top of it looked delicious.
She watched in silence as weary, saddened people streamed into the room, exchanged a few words with Mrs. Vanderbilt, and then joined the gathering. In what appeared to be a valiant effort to stay upbeat, Mr. and Mrs. Brahms came in and tried to eat some food and find some solace in the company of the others. Mr. Vanderbilt went over and spoke to them, and they seemed to find great comfort in his words and touch. He then went over to the pastor and his wife and consoled them about their lost son. He went next to Nolan’s distraught mother and father. Nolan’s father was the blacksmith, but he and his wife were welcome here. Mr. Vanderbilt spoke with them for a long time. The more she watched him, the more her feelings toward him softened. There seemed to be true and genuine caring in him, not just for his guests, but for the people who worked for him as well.
Braeden, following his uncle’s example and looking particularly neat in his black jacket and vest, did his best to talk with a young red-haired girl in a blue dress. The young lady appeared to be more than a little frightened by everything that had been going on. There were other children there as well, looking scared and sullen. Mr. Boseman, the estate superintendent, was in attendance, along with Mr. Pratt and Miss Whitney and many other familiar faces. It seemed to her that the only person missing was poor old Mr. Rostonov. Serafina overheard one of the manservants come in and say that Mr. Rostonov had sent word that he was too heartsick to attend.
She glanced over at Mr. Thorne and Mr. Bendel, who were standing together near the fire. Mr. Thorne looked haggard and tired. When he started to cough a little, he covered his mouth and turned away from Mr. Bendel. It appeared Mr. Thorne might be feeling ill or coming down with a cold. Such a difference from the other times she’d seen him. Nobody was feeling good tonight.
When she saw that nearly everyone was present, Mrs. Vanderbilt turned to Mr. Thorne and put her hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to play something for us.…”
Mr. Thorne looked reluctant.
“Indeed,” Mr. Bendel said encouragingly. “We could all use a bit of cheering up.”
“Of course. I would be honored to oblige,” Mr. Thorne said quietly, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and gathering himself. It took several seconds, but he seemed to find a second wind. He glanced around the room as if looking for inspiration.
“Shall I send the footmen for your violin?” Mrs. Vanderbilt asked, trying to be helpful.
“No, no, thank you. I was thinking I would give that magnificent pipe organ a try…” Mr. Thorne said.
Serafina panicked. She had heard the pipe organ many times before from the basement. She couldn’t even imagine how loud it would be when she was crouching among its pipes. It would break her eardrums for sure! She hurried to wiggle herself out of her hiding spot and escape.
At the same time, Braeden rushed forward and grabbed Mr. Thorne’s arm. “Perhaps you could play the piano instead, Mr. Thorne. I do love the piano.”
Surprised, Mr. Thorne paused and looked at his young friend. “Is that what you would prefer, Master Braeden?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’d love to hear you play.”
“Very well,” Mr. Thorne said.
Much relieved, Serafina smiled at her ally’s quick thinking and crawled back into her hiding spot.
Braeden risked a quick glance up toward her, his face momentarily betraying a self-satisfied grin. She couldn’t help but smile in return.
Mr. Thorne walked over to the grand piano.
“I thought you played the violin,” Mr. Bendel said.
“Lately, I’ve been tinkering a bit with the piano as well,” Mr. Thorne said quietly.
He sat down in front of the piano slowly, almost shyly, as if he was uncertain. He sat there for several long seconds while everyone waited. And then, without taking off his satin gloves, he began to play. He played a soft and enchanting sonata with the grace of a virtuoso. The piece he had selected was not too sad, and not too happy, but was lovely in its own way, and it seemed to bring everyone together in mood and spirit. Serafina marveled at how music seemed to have an almost magical ability to unite the emotions of the people in a room. Everyone seemed to truly love and appreciate Mr. Thorne’s playing except Mr. and Mrs. Brahms, who seemed to grow sadder with every note he played. Mrs. Brahms began to sob and pulled out her handkerchief, and then her apologetic husband had to take her away. The other guests continued to listen to Mr. Thorne’s music as he finished the sonata.
“Thank you, Mr. Thorne,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said, trying to stay positive. She looked around at everyone. “Why don’t we all see if we can have a little bite to eat and something to drink?”
Braeden approached Mr. Thorne shyly. “You play wonderfully, sir.”
“Thank you, Braeden,” Mr. Thorne said with a small smile. “I appreciate it. I know you are a young man of discerning taste.”
“A few weeks ago, when you first arrived at Biltmore, you told us a delightful story about the boy with three wishes.”
“Yes?” Mr. Thorne looked at him.
“Do you have any others?” Braeden asked, looking around at the red-haired girl in the blue dress and the other children. “Could you tell us another story?”
Mr. Thorne paused and looked at Mrs. Vanderbilt, who nodded in agreement, looking proud of her nephew for his consideration of the others. “I think that would be wonderful if you could, Mr. Thorne. We’d all enjoy it.”
“Then I shall endeavor to try,” Mr. Thorne agreed, nodding. He slowly waved his arm to the children. “Let’s all gather around the hearth.”
As Braeden and the other children sat in the glowing light of the fire, Mr. Thorne lowered his voice into a dramatic tone and began to tell a story.
Watching and listening from the organ loft, Serafina could see that the children were leaning forward, following the story intently. Mr. Thorne’s voice was soft at times, and then booming with force at other times. She found herself longing to gather around and listen with the other children. Her heart ached to be a part of the world he depicted—a place where all the boys and girls had mommas and papas
and brothers and sisters. A place where the children played together in bright fields, and when they got tired, lay about in the shade of a giant tree on top of a hill. Serafina wanted to be in that world. She wanted to live that life. The story made her long to see her momma and hear her voice. And when the story was done, she thought Mr. Thorne must be one of the most magnificent storytellers she had ever heard.
Mrs. Vanderbilt watched Braeden sitting among the other children and looking up at Mr. Thorne. There was a contented look on her face. Braeden was finally making friends.
Serafina studied Mr. Thorne. There was no denying that he had warmed her heart. She’d loved his music and his story. And he had brought a sense of community and togetherness to the sad gathering for a little while. Braeden and Mr. Bendel were right—he was a man of many talents.
Afterward, as the gathering was breaking up, Mrs. Vanderbilt approached Mr. Thorne and gently embraced him. “Thank you, sir, for all you’ve been doing for us. I especially appreciate the way you’ve befriended Braeden. He thinks the world of you.”
“I just wish I could do more,” Mr. Thorne said. “These are such difficult times for everyone.”
“You’re a good man, Montgomery,” said Mr. Vanderbilt as he walked up and shook Mr. Thorne’s hand in gratitude. “Later this evening, I would like to invite you and Mr. Bendel to join me in the Billiard Room for cognac and cigars. Just us friends.”
“Thank you very much, George,” Mr. Thorne said, bowing slightly. “I’m honored. I look forward to it.”
As Serafina watched the interaction, something didn’t sit quite right with her. Mr. Thorne looked somber, as he should at a sorrowful gathering such as this, but she noticed something else, too. As Mr. Vanderbilt spoke with him, Mr. Thorne had the same look on his face that a possum gets when he’s gnawing on a sweet tater he’s grubbed out of the garden. He seemed pleased with himself—too pleased, and not just for his flawless playing and his wonderful story. He seemed delighted by the personal invitation to join George Vanderbilt’s inner circle. Braeden had told her that his uncle and Mr. Thorne had only known each other for a few months, but now she could see there was a stronger connection developing between them, a growing personal bond. The Vanderbilts were one of the most famous, wealthy, and powerful families in all of America, and Mr. Thorne had just made himself a most valued friend.
Serafina and the Black Cloak Page 15