“It’s good to know as much as possible about him, but why are you telling me this?” Bethune asked deferentially.
“Oh, no very clear reason,” she admitted. “I think I want to know if anything occurred at your meeting at the Embassy this morning, but I don’t want to have to say so directly, so this is a kind of fishing.” She grinned suddenly, the unexpected expression blossoming on her features as if she had been magically transformed.
Bethune laughed, and after a half-second, so did Wilhelmina. “You must be wily in the classroom, Willie.”
“Oh, I was,” she said, her smile vanishing. “Athletic boys lived in terror of my random quizzes, and pretty girls with crushes on Jimmy Stewart would implore me to excuse them from any exams.” Then she looked away, her eyes turned toward the window, but seeing a classroom on the other side of the Atlantic.
“How’s your aunt doing?” Bethune inquired, trying to buy Wilhelmina a little time to collect herself, as he tested his coffee and found it cool enough to drink.
“As well as can be expected. She recently arranged for us to have this house for our residence as soon as she dies, no delays in court. Her attorney has already filed the papers. Aunt Eugenie has been very good to us.”
“Any idea—”
“—when?” She drank more coffee. “No. Probably more than three months but less than six.” She looked in the general direction of the stairs. “She’s pretty much bed-ridden. Her doctor comes twice a week.”
“She’s in her sixties, isn’t she?” Bethune asked, and took a bite of a flaky-crusted fig-roll.
“Seventy-two. She’s had a good, long run, and I think she’s ready for all this to be over.” She got up to get a pair of cream-puffs, then sat down again. “I can tell she isn’t hanging on very much. She’s not eating very much, and about all she likes to do is read Victorian novels. She’s clearing everything out.”
Something occurred to Bethune as he listened, something that had not crossed his mind until this afternoon; he asked it while it was fresh in his mind. “When all this Red-baiting is over, are you going back home, or will you stay here?”
Wilhelmina almost tipped her large saucer off the chair arm. “You know, Tolliver, I’ve been thinking about that recently,” she said. “I suppose it depends on how long it takes to get things straightened out. Boris and I aren’t spring chickens, and if we’re still here five years from now, then we may just keep on. There’re a lot worse places than Paris, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do you think Boris agrees?” Bethune asked, his speculations already on the rest of the Coven. How many of them thought the way the Kings did?
“I don’t know specifically, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he did.” She drank half her coffee and picked up the first of her cream-puffs. “The trouble is, I don’t know about the Frosts, or how any of the rest of them, for that matter, feel.”
Bethune heard her with the intensity he usually reserved for news bulletins out of Berlin. It had not occurred to him before now that for some of the Coven, return to the US was not necessarily the desired end of his efforts on their behalf. He realized he should say something, so he looked at Wilhelmina and said, “You’re right. These fig-rolls are excellent.”
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM BETTY-ANN PARKER IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, TO HER COUSIN MOIRA FROST IN PARIS, FRANCE, SENT VIA AIR MAIL AND DELIVERED FOUR DAYS LATER.
April 3rd, 1950
Dear Cousin Moira,
Sorry to hear that your husband is in the hospital. Tim’s had a horrible five years, hasn’t he? What a sad thing that is, you being in a foreign country and all. Do the doctors think he’s going to have more seizures? Do you know what caused it? And in the car, too. You’re lucky he didn’t fall out the door. Golly, you two have been through a lot. You tell him I hope he gets well soon, even better than he was before he had the seizure. I have to tell you, I never knew a bad concussion could be so awful for so long. I don’t think I could stand it, either having such a concussion or taking care of someone who had one. Is the friend you mentioned helping you out? You say Tim will be in the hospital for another week—that’s a long time, isn’t it? Is there anything they can do to lessen the kind of seizures he has? Some kind of medicine, maybe, or an operation to help? I can ask Dr. Ives, if you like, to see if he can suggest anything. He’s just our local doc, but he’s good at his job.
I don’t know if anyone else has told you, but Uncle Frederick and his second wife, Alexis, are signed up to do a month-long Mediterranean cruise in June, to celebrate their first anniversary. They’ll be stopping at Barcelona and Nice, and nine other cities. Dining is formal, and women must wear long skirts. They start out in Belgium and end up in Greece; Uncle Howard says that Alexis is going to want to go to every chapel, church, and cathedral they encounter along the way. The trip is costing $4,000—each! For what they’re spending on this trip, they could live pretty well for a year—not lavishly, but not pinching too many pennies. Daddy says Uncle Frederick is a fool, that he should put that money to good use so it can keep him and Alexis comfortable in their old age, not use it for gallivanting around the world. We haven’t done anything with them since Christmas, which is kind of too bad, since I do like Alexis. The rest of the family doesn’t agree with me, but they don’t see what she’s done for herself, and that she really does love Uncle Frederick. The thing is, her Daddy took a bad fall in the Crash, and she said she decided she would make money and make the most of that money having fun with it. Daddy warned Uncle Frederick that he would live to rue the day he married Alexis.
You may have heard that Grandfather Larkin passed away last Tuesday in the evening. He had been in badly failing health for over a year, so we all knew it was coming. Sixty-four is the age he reached, not too bad, when you think about it. The last six months were really hard on him. His housekeeper did a good job. She’s a retired nurse who takes on cases like his. Grandfather Larkin asked Uncle Howard to handle the Will, and to make sure that Mrs. Cassidy gets something extra for all her trouble. I don’t expect we’ll receive anything from him: he gave Daddy the grandfather clock two years ago. It’s not like Grandfather Larkin was an extravagant man, like Uncle Frederick is. Mom told me that she thought Grandfather might make small gifts to his grandchildren, and if he did, she wants to be sure that I put mine toward my college fund. I won’t count my inheritance until it’s in my savings account.
Cousin Emily’s twins are finally doing better; their doctor says they’ll be fine, but I still think it wasn’t a good idea to call them Mason and Dixon. Everyone coos and giggles over those little boys, because their names are so cute. I don’t think they’ll think that when the boys are in grade-school. They’re like to be teased to distraction. But Cousin Emily won’t hear a word against them, and her husband positively boasts about them. You probably think that’s a good thing for parents to do, but keep in mind, there are all kinds of hassles that happen to kids that the parents never find out about. You know about that, too, don’t you?
I’m not supposed to mention current events, but there was a long article in the paper yesterday about how the FBI hunts down Communists, and how dangerous Communists are. There was a little something about the CIA doing the same in foreign countries. There was nothing about how they coordinate their work, but that could be because they want to keep that part secret. Daddy says it’s because they’re rivals, but I don’t see the point in that, do you? I probably shouldn’t be asking you this, but I think you know more than I do, or anyone else in the family.
Swim team practice starts next week, and I’m taking ballet lessons, to improve my stretching and stamina. Mrs. Rollander, who teaches American History and Current Events, is the coach this semester. She was on her college swim team, and I think she’s doing a great job. We wear regulation tank suits for our competitions, and they look awful, but Mrs. Rollander tells us that they help us swim faster. I’m not going to argue with her, but it seem like a dumb idea.
Let me know as soon a
s you have Tim home again, and give him my best wishes in getting well. We all miss you here—even Emilia, who thinks you guys are up to no good—and when you can come home, Uncle Frederick promises to throw you a big party. No one will want to miss that. Until then, our prayers are with you.
Your loving cousin,
Betty-Ann
6
“SORRY WE’RE late,” said the Praegers as they came into the living room of Charis’ flat, almost in unison. Both of them were dressed in a manner to show that they were one of those who saw themselves as a pair who can display the appropriate sartorial requirements of all those in the Coven: they would look appropriate to half the university campuses in the US, and similar to the look of students in Europe. Their arrival somewhat startled the group gathered in the eclectically furnished living room, for they had come up the stairs and had not bothered with the elevator, so that the sound of their footsteps in the foyer had sent a chill through those who had already arrived. “It’s the Praegers,” Jesse added, in case they were not the last to come; he and Elvira were taking off their jackets to hang in the coat-closet. “We would have been here sooner, but I had a call home booked for six, and I didn’t want to lose it. My mother’s birthday.” In spite of his energetic way of talking, he had the air of someone wrestling with a difficult problem; Elvira seemed scared, and a little short of breath, for she huddled in her jacket as if to keep out something worse than the evening chill. They went from the foyer to the half-open double-doors, where they paused to admire the way the place had turned out. “Say—not bad. Not bad at all,” Praeger decided aloud. “What do you think, honey?”
Elvira managed a rictus smile. “It’s beautiful. Different. I like it.”
“I’ll pass your praise on to Lord Weldon, whenever he gets back from India.” Charis had risen from her carved pear-wood Oriental chair, and went to the newcomers. “I think there’re chairs enough. If not, Wash, would you bring one in from the dining room?”
“I’ll slide over, that’ll give room for one of you,” Mary Anne offered from her place on one of two gondola sofas at either end of the gorgeous Chinese carpet of muted lavender woven in a pattern of chrysanthemums edged in silver. Other Oriental chairs, some deeply carved, some far more simple, were set about the living room, most with occasional tables next to them. A large brass-topped coffee-table dominated the center of the room, standing on six mahogany legs, shining in the light cast by the elaborate chandelier depending from the center of the ceiling.
“You could have let us know you’d be late.” Julia Bjornson scowled at the Praegers. “We’ll have to start from the top,” she complained.
“I’ll be glad of that,” Bethune said at once, to quell the bristling around the room. “I’m still trying to compile my information, you know, keep everything up-to-date. I’m just finishing setting up my pages.” He was in his usual elegant clothes, a clip-board with a number of yellow sheets of lined paper on his knee, an expensive pen poised over them. “It’ll give me a chance to catch up with all of you.”
“What about Miranda?” Washington Young asked as he carried in a chair from the Empire dining suite. “Will she be here? It’s Tuesday—nothing much happens on Tuesday.”
“No, she won’t,” said Charis.
“Don’t tell me she has a date?” Julia Bjornson asked with a slight, derogatory laugh.
“No, she’s got a job,” said Charis, settling the Praegers on either side of Mary Anne. “She’s had an offer from the Turks, of all people.”
There was an astonished silence; finally McCall said, “The Turks. As in Turkey.”
“Yes,” Charis told them all.
“That was sudden, wasn’t it?” Julia Bjornson asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Charis. “She left as soon as she had a confirmation of the offer. She’s probably reached Istanbul by now.” She paused, expecting questions; when none came, she went on. “One of their archeological digs back at the eastern end of the country have turned up some clay tablets in a fairly good-sized city that may be astronomical charts—at least, that’s what the antiquities people there think, but they need an astronomer to confirm this. They want her to come and work it out for them. If the tablets are star charts, it will help date the site. Miranda said it was too good an offer to turn down, even if she weren’t floundering for work. They’ve provided a three-year study grant, an office, and a small staff. It came out of the blue. No pun intended,” she added, flushing a little.
“Astronomical archeology,” mused McCall.
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Pomeroy advised.
“Still, not bad,” McCall approved for the rest of them.
“And Steve? Does anyone know where he is?” asked Axel.
“He’s gone to Switzerland for a short holiday; he called me on Saturday, just before he left,” said Bethune. “One of his former colleagues is going to be in Zurich for a week, and Steve wanted to see him. He’ll be back on Friday.”
Washington Young came from the dining room, an elegant chair in his hands, one of an Empire suite of dining table, sideboard, china cabinet, and ten chairs, all done in chestnut wood. “Where do you want this put?”
“Over there?” said Charis, waving her hand in the direction of the fireplace. “Any place the light is good. Next to the bronze floor-lamp. Thanks.”
Young did as he was asked, nodded to McCall, who occupied the chair next to it, and went back to his round-backed Oriental chair, sat down, and took out his hand-rolled cigarettes—unlike the ones at his apartment, these were filled with tobacco. He lit up and reached for his secretary’s notebook, where he kept his notes for The Grimoire.
Axel Bjornson glanced over at Winston Pomeroy, and nodded toward the grandmother clock that occupied the corner between the dining-room door and the tall windows, at present covered by draperies of light-bronze velvet. “Isn’t it about time?”
“Where are the Frosts and the Kings? I know Happy is out of town, but the Frosts and the Kings are in town, aren’t they? Don’t they need this up-dating?” Mary Anne asked. “Shouldn’t we wait for them?”
“I’ve already spoken with them,” Bethune said, “as part of a legal matter I’m handling for both couples; I realized I hadn’t enough information to manage the negotiation properly. That was true for all of you: I need to know more. I just thought it would be faster and more … useful to have a general meeting. There’s nothing I want to know that requires confidentiality, and I thought it might clear the air for … some of us.” He looked around and nodded once.
“Did you learn something at the Embassy?” Axel asked, trying not to sound too interested. “Is that what you’re asking about?”
“Are we being surveilled?” Young, who had been listening with his head down, now raised it enough to stick out his chin.
“Is the Grof going to be here?” McCall interjected his question with a predatory smirk.
“I would like it if he were,” said Bethune quickly, glancing at McCall, and making no attempt to conceal his annoyance.
“Possibly later,” said Charis. “This doesn’t impact him directly, but possibly indirectly. Eclipse Press has an interest in several of us, and it’s printing books we couldn’t place with a publisher back home. If there’s going to be trouble, he’ll want to know.”
“Or he may just want to spy,” said McCall.
“McCall, please,” said Bethune.
“If he comes later, he won’t be in on our discussion, which is all to the good,” said Pomeroy.
“Why?” Charis asked.
“In case McCall’s right, and the Grof’s watching us for some purpose other than publishing,” said Pomeroy, looking away from her. “Not that I want to think of him that way, but we need to be circumspect.”
“Better safe than sorry,” said Young.
“Please.” Bethune held up his hands. “Let’s get to this; we can argue when we’re done. For now, we need to confront all manner of private issues.”
“Shouldn’t w
e do it in private consultation with you?” Axel regarded Bethune sternly. “Doesn’t our speaking with everyone present end attorney-client confidentiality?”
“Since you are all in the same group, and are acting in concert, the Coven itself is my client, and confidentiality remains in effect,” Bethune explained. “Think of the group as a specialized union, and I am your counsel of record.”
“All the more reason for the Grof to stay away,” said Axel. “He isn’t one of us, and his presence could obviate our privacy. Do you think we can maintain our complaints and actions without exposing ourselves?”
“Do you mean that Szent-Germain could be called to testify about what he might witness tonight?” Bethune asked. “We may have to include him in the Coven.”
“But he’s not an American,” Jesse Praeger pointed out. “Wouldn’t that change the status of the Coven?”
“Perhaps, if that’s what troubles you, you may prefer to do this all by private appointment, but that could become divisive, and that wouldn’t serve any of us at all well,” Bethune told him. “If you don’t feel comfortable answering my questions, just say so and we’ll set up an appointment.”
Jesse Praeger looked over at Bethune. “Does this have anything to do with your visit to the Embassy last week? Or is it a coincidence? Are you working both sides of the street?” His posture was relaxed but his face was confrontational.
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