Fire Bell in the Night by Geoffrey Edwards

Author:Geoffrey Edwards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone

FOURTEEN

John heard a gentle knock as soon as he had began to stir about his room. He hastily pulled on a long robe, then walked over to unlock the door. The robe was obviously Tyler’s, because it trailed on the floor behind John as if he was mounting the dais for his coronation.

Ellis, the young manservant who had apparently been assigned to him, offered a cheerful greeting. “Happy Independence Day, sir.” Curtains were opened, flooding the room with light.

While John partook of his breakfast tray of coffee, fruit, and biscuits on a small table adorned with a vase of Clio’s red roses, Ellis delivered John’s freshly polished shoes and hung his cleaned suit from the preceding day in the closet. He laid out a handsome tan ensemble.

“Will this do for ya, sir?”

With John’s reply in the affirmative, the man withdrew, then reappeared after John had dressed.

At John’s request, Ellis showed him to a quiet upstairs parlor where he could work on his notes away from the bustle of party preparations.

“Just don’t tell Massa Breckenridge we put you in here,” he said in a conspiratorial tone as he nodded toward the room. “The massa ain’t crazy ’bout the portrait.”

John nodded. “One other thing. I had something in the pocket of the suit I wore yesterday—the one you just returned. It was made out of string. I can’t seem to find it. Could you check for me, please?”

Ellis’s brow knotted. “String, sir? I will ask about it, sir.”

The parlor had been a lady’s room. Lace curtains provided the backdrop for bright floral upholstery and graceful light-toned woods. A collection of porcelain figurines and delicate blown glass decorated the tables and the top of a small bookshelf of leather-bound classics in Greek and Latin. A book of botanical watercolors sat open on the coffee table as if in use just moments ago. John noticed a cane resting in a stand beside the sofa. It had an L-shaped handle inset with rose-colored cloisonné. It was a practical appliance rather than an accessory.

The portrait to which Ellis had referred graced the wall above a French mantelpiece. It was of Breckenridge, and could not have been more than a few years old. As John regarded the portrait, he wondered at first why Breckenridge disliked it. It was an excellent likeness of a worthy subject. Breckenridge stood relaxed beside a pillar of Willowby’s south portico—handsome in a wheat-colored suit, one hand resting on the wrought-iron gate. His expression was pleasant, if unsmiling.

It would have been no strain for Breckenridge to pose for the portrait. From what John knew of him, there would have been no restlessness, no fidgeting in position. Yet the man appeared frozen in time like a wasp trapped in amber.

There was an unsettling quality to the eyes. The serious, slightly sad look the artist depicted was almost right—but not. When Breckenridge was not addressing someone directly, his eyes were always moving. Like the driver of a carriage on a busy street, he was constantly

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