The animal backtracked to stand on the stair behind Charles.
“Be sure you don’t let her out.” Augusta passed through the door and left Charles to fend off the wild thing with one shoe. He escaped with only minor damage to one pantleg.
He stepped into a long gallery, and space expanded in all directions. Every flat plane was a far distance and every vertical line soared. He judged the ceilings to be at least eighteen feet high, and the doorframes were made for eleven-foot giants.
Augusta’s hand rested on a Dresden china doorknob as she pointed up to the ornate friezes at the ceiling molding. The upper wall was studded with delicate roses. “The flowers were made from a mixture of Spanish moss and plaster.”
She guided him into a room of even more generous proportion. Tall windows extended from floor to ceiling and provided light enough to see delicate tapestries falling to tatters on the walls, and mold gathering on the furniture. All the pieces in this room might have been worthy of a museum, but now they were beyond restoration. The cracked window-panes had allowed rain damage. A chair-backed settee was kneeling on broken forelegs. The thick Oriental rug, which should have lasted centuries was rotting on the floor. Threads gave way under his shoes and beetles ran out from underfoot.
So poverty was not the cause of the neglect. The sale of these pieces would have paid for maintenance on the house. He averted his eyes as they passed by a cracking landscape of foggy moon and ghostly trees. It had been worth a fortune – once. They passed into the vast dining room, where other precious paintings were warping and cracking on water-stained walls.
“Why has it all gone to ruin?” He hadn’t meant to ask that aloud, but he could not contain himself.
“Well, I had to let the house rot. That was a promise I made to my father as he was dying.”
Had the man been demented? That probably would be a rude question, and Charles kept it to himself as he followed her back to the long gallery, where another set of doors opened onto a grand ballroom.
Now this was glorious, luminous. The white walls and floor reflected all the light at the end of the day and dazzled him into a wide smile. But now his smile waned as he stared at the ruined marble floor. Each tile bore a crack and some were nearly pounded to dust.
“You can blame that damage on one of my horses,” said Augusta. “That Appaloosa was a good strong animal, but you’d be amazed how much punishment the tiles can take before they crack.” And then in the afterthought of a tour guide, she said, “It’s all Italian marble.”
This was almost too much for Charles. His parents had never allowed him to run indoors, lest he damage some old and valuable piece of china glass – Augusta had ridden a horse through the house.
He followed her up the grand staircase, and as they passed by the open doors along the hallway, she gave him a running commentary.
here were precious clocks in every room, all stopped at the same time, the hour of her father’s death.
Augusta said, somewhat disgusted, “The house is made of cypress. Termites cannot penetrate it. The walls will not fall down. These floors are made of heart pine, and there’s hardly a patch of wood rot. However, I am making some headway with the roof. It’s got some prominent holes that’ll let you see daylight. The poor bats, though. They don’t take too well to direct sun. Some of them are migrating to the lower floors.”
He peered into the last room before the next staircase. The carpet was spotted with dung. Bats had indeed taken up residence here. Against one wall was an elaborately carved canopy bed. He had only seen one like it at a New York auction house. Mosquito netting partially covered the bed in a wreckage of gauzy spiderwebs and woven rotted threads of cotton. A dead bat lay on the mattress, its molding body fusing with the material.
They continued up the stairs and into the attic,
“Be sure you don’t let her out.” Augusta passed through the door and left Charles to fend off the wild thing with one shoe. He escaped with only minor damage to one pantleg.
He stepped into a long gallery, and space expanded in all directions. Every flat plane was a far distance and every vertical line soared. He judged the ceilings to be at least eighteen feet high, and the doorframes were made for eleven-foot giants.
Augusta’s hand rested on a Dresden china doorknob as she pointed up to the ornate friezes at the ceiling molding. The upper wall was studded with delicate roses. “The flowers were made from a mixture of Spanish moss and plaster.”
She guided him into a room of even more generous proportion. Tall windows extended from floor to ceiling and provided light enough to see delicate tapestries falling to tatters on the walls, and mold gathering on the furniture. All the pieces in this room might have been worthy of a museum, but now they were beyond restoration. The cracked window-panes had allowed rain damage. A chair-backed settee was kneeling on broken forelegs. The thick Oriental rug, which should have lasted centuries was rotting on the floor. Threads gave way under his shoes and beetles ran out from underfoot.
So poverty was not the cause of the neglect. The sale of these pieces would have paid for maintenance on the house. He averted his eyes as they passed by a cracking landscape of foggy moon and ghostly trees. It had been worth a fortune – once. They passed into the vast dining room, where other precious paintings were warping and cracking on water-stained walls.
“Why has it all gone to ruin?” He hadn’t meant to ask that aloud, but he could not contain himself.
“Well, I had to let the house rot. That was a promise I made to my father as he was dying.”
Had the man been demented? That probably would be a rude question, and Charles kept it to himself as he followed her back to the long gallery, where another set of doors opened onto a grand ballroom.
Now this was glorious, luminous. The white walls and floor reflected all the light at the end of the day and dazzled him into a wide smile. But now his smile waned as he stared at the ruined marble floor. Each tile bore a crack and some were nearly pounded to dust.
“You can blame that damage on one of my horses,” said Augusta. “That Appaloosa was a good strong animal, but you’d be amazed how much punishment the tiles can take before they crack.” And then in the afterthought of a tour guide, she said, “It’s all Italian marble.”
This was almost too much for Charles. His parents had never allowed him to run indoors, lest he damage some old and valuable piece of china glass – Augusta had ridden a horse through the house.
He followed her up the grand staircase, and as they passed by the open doors along the hallway, she gave him a running commentary.
here were precious clocks in every room, all stopped at the same time, the hour of her father’s death.
Augusta said, somewhat disgusted, “The house is made of cypress. Termites cannot penetrate it. The walls will not fall down. These floors are made of heart pine, and there’s hardly a patch of wood rot. However, I am making some headway with the roof. It’s got some prominent holes that’ll let you see daylight. The poor bats, though. They don’t take too well to direct sun. Some of them are migrating to the lower floors.”
He peered into the last room before the next staircase. The carpet was spotted with dung. Bats had indeed taken up residence here. Against one wall was an elaborately carved canopy bed. He had only seen one like it at a New York auction house. Mosquito netting partially covered the bed in a wreckage of gauzy spiderwebs and woven rotted threads of cotton. A dead bat lay on the mattress, its molding body fusing with the material.
They continued up the stairs and into the attic,
Similar Books
