O' Artful Death - By Sarah Stewart Taylor Page 0,85
It’s just that there are still some . . . unanswered questions.”
“There usually are. Are you having a good time?”
“Yes. I keep thinking about your description of the parties in your book. The modern-day version must seem very tame to you.”
“It does,” he said, smiling. “Though I suspect the music’s better. In the old days, Gilmartin always insisted on singing. Apparently, he was not gifted with a particularly melodious voice.” They talked about the accounts of the parties in his book for a few minutes and then Britta came over and announced that it was time to eat.
Sweeney went and filled her plate, and took it over to the couch, where Sabina and Rosemary were sitting with a big group of people.
“Isn’t Bennett wonderful?” Sabina asked as Sweeney came over.
“I think I have a little bit of a crush on him,” Rosemary said in a whisper, and Sweeney said that she did, too.
They ate happily for few minutes, and listened to a story one of the guests was telling about a trip to Morocco on which she had been robbed at knifepoint. Sweeney turned to ask Sabina if she wanted anything more to eat and found her sitting straight up on the couch and staring at the big window on the wall across from them.
“Sabina?” Rosemary asked after a moment. “Are you okay?”
“Did you see someone outside?” Sweeney stood up and looked through the window. There was nothing but the party, reflected in the glass. When she went over and cupped her hand against the window, she saw only the empty black night.
Sabina said nothing. She just stared. And after a moment, she put her plate down and started talking again, assuring them that she was fine.
The moment passed, but the tension wasn’t broken until Patch came in dressed in boots and a parka. His face was ruddy from the cold. “Anyone want to go for a sleigh ride? I just brought it around.”
Britta was standing at one end of the room, holding a plate of food. “Patch,” she called out. “You’re drunk. Be careful.”
“I’m not so drunk,” he called back cheerfully. “And I’m always careful.”
Toby and Rosemary had put on their parkas and boots, too, and they stood beside Sweeney arm in arm.
“Come with us, Sweeney,” Rosemary said, grinning. Willow and Ian and Gally and Trip had gotten dressed to go, too.
“Come on, Sweeney,” Toby said. “Let’s go. You’ll love it. It’s just like in Russian novels. You’ll feel like Anna Karenina, racing across the steppes. And I promise there aren’t any streetcars.”
They were being kind to include her, and though she felt a thin rivulet of distilled fear snake its way down her spine, she nodded and let them lead her to the door.
TWENTY-SIX
The highlight of any Christmas gathering at the Gilmartins was a sleigh ride up to Maple Hill. Herrick Gilmartin loved to drive his little German-made sleigh and he made a tradition of taking his guests up to watch the stars from the summit, one side of which formed a modest cliff above the river and offered pleasing views of The Island.
He wasn’t content merely to squire his passengers, but would ask the cook to pack a basket of snacks and flasks of hot chocolate fortified with brandy. If there happened to be a musically talented guest at the house, passengers might be serenaded atop Maple Hill as they viewed the night sky.
—Muse of the Hills: The Byzantium Colony, 1860–1956,
BY BENNETT DAMMERS
THE WENTWORTHS’ SLEIGH was painted a glossy black, with red velvet upholstered seats and crimson blankets folded on the floor. It stood nearly ten feet tall, a gorgeous, strange insect that did look as though it were out of a Russian novel.
“It can seat twelve,” Patch said as he climbed in and took the reins. “We got it from a bed and breakfast that used to take guests on sleigh rides. Isn’t it great?” Sweeney, Toby, Rosemary, Willow, Ian and the twins settled in, tucking the blankets around their legs. Sweeney had put on a pair of Patch’s high winter boots and her parka over her dress, but she shivered in the cold air.
The two giant Clydesdales harnessed to the sleigh pranced and snorted impatiently. They were handsome animals, their chestnut coats and bell-laden harnesses gleaming under the driveway lights. Patch murmured something soothing to them and turned around, holding up a silver flask. “Anybody? There’s only one way to stay warm on a sleigh ride.”