dispossession had been wrenching, but he struck me as a man who stoically endured setbacks and disappointments without grousing. I wish I could.
He carried the wine bottle, wrapped in a napkin to prevent dripping, and preceded me as we traipsed up that grand staircase to the second floor. The room we entered was androgynous. Even if he hadn’t told me, I’d have known it had originally been designed as a lady’s bedchamber; the walls were papered in a flowered pattern, the balloon drapes were chintz, and the plastered ceiling was painted with vignettes of rosy cherubim gamboling in golden meadows. I thought it all a trifle much.
But the furnishings were starkly masculine: desk, tables, and bookcases in burnished oak, all the chairs upholstered in maroon leather with brass studs. And an enormous pine étagère obviously custom-built to fill one wall. The long, heavy shelves held Mr. Horace’s collection of ship models.
Lordy, they were handsome. Not a bit of plastic to be seen, but all carefully crafted of oak, teak, mahogany, ebony. The sails looked to be fine linen, and I was certain the rigging was accurate down to the tiniest belaying pin and the exquisite miniature anchor chains.
We sipped our wine while Mr. Whitcomb gave me a short history of each ship, enlivened with a few details about the craftsmen who had built the models, working from original plans. Some of the reduced-scale copies were quite old, some of recent vintage, and I was delighted to learn there were still artisans capable of such devoted and painstaking work. The model of the clipper Flying Cloud was my favorite. What a beauty!
Then, the tour completed, we sat in facing club chairs to finish our wine. A civilized afternoon.
“A remarkable collection, sir,” I said. “Any museum would love to have it.”
His laugh was short and, I thought, rather bitter. “I expect one of them shall,” he said. “Eventually. I’d hate to see it broken up and sold off piecemeal after I die. I’ve spent a great deal of time and money, but it’s been a labor of love. I can’t tell you how much pleasure these models have given me over the years. They’ve provided the perfect antidote to the somewhat depressing routine of my particular business.”
“Your son doesn’t share your enthusiasm?” I ventured.
“No,” he said shortly, “he does not. Oliver has hobbies of his own.”
I didn’t dare ask what those might be, but I could imagine. I could also guess that despite his urbanity, Horace Whitcomb was a troubled man.
But his conversation remained light and pleasing. He related several anecdotes of sea battles between men-of-war, all of them interesting and some amusing. He was a skilled raconteur, but I had the impression he was merely repeating thrice-told tales and his thoughts were elsewhere. I presumed his wife’s condition was distracting him.
But suddenly he broke off his account of the bloody engagement between the Bonhomme Richard and the British frigate Serapis off Flamborough Head. He fell silent and stared at me in what I can only describe as a contemplative, almost broody, manner.
“Archy,” he said, “I understand you conduct private investigations for your father’s firm.”
I was startled and tried not to show it. I was certain poppa hadn’t said a word about my duties to Mr. Whitcomb, and I couldn’t recall mentioning them to him, his wife, son, or anyone else at the party. The fact that my profession is discreet inquiries is hardly a secret in Palm Beach, but it was a mite unsettling to learn my host was aware of it.
“That’s true, sir,” I said. “Occasionally I do quiet investigations when discretion is required, rather man take inquiries to the authorities and risk unwanted publicity.”
“Quite understandable,” he said. “You must have had many unusual experiences.”
It was obviously an invitation to gab, and I was offended. Did he think me a babbler—or was he testing me?
“Most of what I do is
He carried the wine bottle, wrapped in a napkin to prevent dripping, and preceded me as we traipsed up that grand staircase to the second floor. The room we entered was androgynous. Even if he hadn’t told me, I’d have known it had originally been designed as a lady’s bedchamber; the walls were papered in a flowered pattern, the balloon drapes were chintz, and the plastered ceiling was painted with vignettes of rosy cherubim gamboling in golden meadows. I thought it all a trifle much.
But the furnishings were starkly masculine: desk, tables, and bookcases in burnished oak, all the chairs upholstered in maroon leather with brass studs. And an enormous pine étagère obviously custom-built to fill one wall. The long, heavy shelves held Mr. Horace’s collection of ship models.
Lordy, they were handsome. Not a bit of plastic to be seen, but all carefully crafted of oak, teak, mahogany, ebony. The sails looked to be fine linen, and I was certain the rigging was accurate down to the tiniest belaying pin and the exquisite miniature anchor chains.
We sipped our wine while Mr. Whitcomb gave me a short history of each ship, enlivened with a few details about the craftsmen who had built the models, working from original plans. Some of the reduced-scale copies were quite old, some of recent vintage, and I was delighted to learn there were still artisans capable of such devoted and painstaking work. The model of the clipper Flying Cloud was my favorite. What a beauty!
Then, the tour completed, we sat in facing club chairs to finish our wine. A civilized afternoon.
“A remarkable collection, sir,” I said. “Any museum would love to have it.”
His laugh was short and, I thought, rather bitter. “I expect one of them shall,” he said. “Eventually. I’d hate to see it broken up and sold off piecemeal after I die. I’ve spent a great deal of time and money, but it’s been a labor of love. I can’t tell you how much pleasure these models have given me over the years. They’ve provided the perfect antidote to the somewhat depressing routine of my particular business.”
“Your son doesn’t share your enthusiasm?” I ventured.
“No,” he said shortly, “he does not. Oliver has hobbies of his own.”
I didn’t dare ask what those might be, but I could imagine. I could also guess that despite his urbanity, Horace Whitcomb was a troubled man.
But his conversation remained light and pleasing. He related several anecdotes of sea battles between men-of-war, all of them interesting and some amusing. He was a skilled raconteur, but I had the impression he was merely repeating thrice-told tales and his thoughts were elsewhere. I presumed his wife’s condition was distracting him.
But suddenly he broke off his account of the bloody engagement between the Bonhomme Richard and the British frigate Serapis off Flamborough Head. He fell silent and stared at me in what I can only describe as a contemplative, almost broody, manner.
“Archy,” he said, “I understand you conduct private investigations for your father’s firm.”
I was startled and tried not to show it. I was certain poppa hadn’t said a word about my duties to Mr. Whitcomb, and I couldn’t recall mentioning them to him, his wife, son, or anyone else at the party. The fact that my profession is discreet inquiries is hardly a secret in Palm Beach, but it was a mite unsettling to learn my host was aware of it.
“That’s true, sir,” I said. “Occasionally I do quiet investigations when discretion is required, rather man take inquiries to the authorities and risk unwanted publicity.”
“Quite understandable,” he said. “You must have had many unusual experiences.”
It was obviously an invitation to gab, and I was offended. Did he think me a babbler—or was he testing me?
“Most of what I do is
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