car is
magnificent. I don’t know anything about cars, but I can
appreciate this one. A man, who looks more like a bouncer for a
high-class nightclub than a chauffeur, opens the car doors for us. I
crawl in back with Linnie. The interior has an elm veneer and
cream-colored leather seats. My dad taught me about wood, as useless
as the knowledge has been, while making furniture, in his spare time.
I peer out the window. A small crowd has
gathered around the car. No, I’m wrong; they’re all men,
gathered around Chauncey. No wonder: she looks like a movie star,
standing there. Chauncey programs a tall blond man’s phone
number into her phone, before crossing to the passenger seat, where
the chauffeur waits.
The chauffeur alters his aloof expression to
give Chauncey a poorly disguised once-over.
After loading our luggage, the beefy chauffeur accepts some money
from Nicholas and heads away from the car. At the curb, the chauffeur
hails a taxi… strange. His actions make sense when Nicholas
climbs into the driver’s seat and says, over his shoulder, “I
thought you ladies would appreciate the room.”
And we do.
After driving a few minutes through a small city, we are surrounded
by countryside pastures. The fields spread up to each cottage and
quaint house, looking as if the whole landscape could have popped out
of a postcard. We wind around so many grassy meadows, the fields
could be one continuous pasture. I take Linnie’s hand and lean
back. We select the houses we would live in, pointing to more than
not.
After less than an hour, Nicholas stops at a gate, connecting a tall
hedge that runs along the road for some distance on each side. The
hedge is tall and wide enough to be unusual, in this area where all
other houses are either surrounded by a small wood fence or nothing
at all.
The hedge and the large wood gate block out any view of the castle
from the road. The old fashioned feel of the scene is lost when
Nicholas opens a box by his driver-side window and presses his thumb
to a key-pad.
“We will have to scan your prints into the system,”
Nicholas calls back.
I gulp at the prospect; I’m not sure why.
The gate swings back, giving us a full view of Leijonskjöld
Castle. Nicholas was right; the castle is more like a big house, or
more like three big houses. The long driveway cuts a straight path
through a large green pasture, interrupted by thin trees, and
enclosed by a long stone wall. The hedge must have disguised the
cobblestone wall, but the stone enclosure continues from both sides
of the gate, out to farther than my gaze can see.
The house was reduced by distance, but as we approach and drive up to
the pillar-encircled doorway, I rethink ‘big house.’
Leijonskjöld Castle is more like a large hotel, flanked by two
mansions. And, I should have guessed, the whole complex is cream
color. Long white pillars stripe the main house’s façade
and a roof slopes down two stories. All three houses are in a style I
would call colonial, if we weren’t in Sweden. The flanking
mansions are two-story miniatures of the main house.
Nicholas points to the one on the left, “This house is for you
ladies. My Grandfather does not let unmarried women sleep in the main
house, to tempt us impressionable boys.”
Chauncey steps out of the passenger seat, “I think an
impressionable boy is headed this way.”
I don’t know about ‘impressionable’ or ‘boy,’
but someone heads our way. He’s huge: looks a bit like Thor,
the thunder god (or how I imagine Thor). He’s as casual as
Nicholas is formal, wearing an outfit I wouldn’t be surprised
to catch my dad in, when he’s carving wood. He approaches
Nicholas, speaking another language, presumably Swedish, and grins.
Even with the outfit, being twice Nicolas’ girth, and his
plethora of gruff blond facial hair, the man is obviously a relation.
He stops a few feet from Nicholas, not noticing us, standing by the
car. When the man’s Swedish continues
magnificent. I don’t know anything about cars, but I can
appreciate this one. A man, who looks more like a bouncer for a
high-class nightclub than a chauffeur, opens the car doors for us. I
crawl in back with Linnie. The interior has an elm veneer and
cream-colored leather seats. My dad taught me about wood, as useless
as the knowledge has been, while making furniture, in his spare time.
I peer out the window. A small crowd has
gathered around the car. No, I’m wrong; they’re all men,
gathered around Chauncey. No wonder: she looks like a movie star,
standing there. Chauncey programs a tall blond man’s phone
number into her phone, before crossing to the passenger seat, where
the chauffeur waits.
The chauffeur alters his aloof expression to
give Chauncey a poorly disguised once-over.
After loading our luggage, the beefy chauffeur accepts some money
from Nicholas and heads away from the car. At the curb, the chauffeur
hails a taxi… strange. His actions make sense when Nicholas
climbs into the driver’s seat and says, over his shoulder, “I
thought you ladies would appreciate the room.”
And we do.
After driving a few minutes through a small city, we are surrounded
by countryside pastures. The fields spread up to each cottage and
quaint house, looking as if the whole landscape could have popped out
of a postcard. We wind around so many grassy meadows, the fields
could be one continuous pasture. I take Linnie’s hand and lean
back. We select the houses we would live in, pointing to more than
not.
After less than an hour, Nicholas stops at a gate, connecting a tall
hedge that runs along the road for some distance on each side. The
hedge is tall and wide enough to be unusual, in this area where all
other houses are either surrounded by a small wood fence or nothing
at all.
The hedge and the large wood gate block out any view of the castle
from the road. The old fashioned feel of the scene is lost when
Nicholas opens a box by his driver-side window and presses his thumb
to a key-pad.
“We will have to scan your prints into the system,”
Nicholas calls back.
I gulp at the prospect; I’m not sure why.
The gate swings back, giving us a full view of Leijonskjöld
Castle. Nicholas was right; the castle is more like a big house, or
more like three big houses. The long driveway cuts a straight path
through a large green pasture, interrupted by thin trees, and
enclosed by a long stone wall. The hedge must have disguised the
cobblestone wall, but the stone enclosure continues from both sides
of the gate, out to farther than my gaze can see.
The house was reduced by distance, but as we approach and drive up to
the pillar-encircled doorway, I rethink ‘big house.’
Leijonskjöld Castle is more like a large hotel, flanked by two
mansions. And, I should have guessed, the whole complex is cream
color. Long white pillars stripe the main house’s façade
and a roof slopes down two stories. All three houses are in a style I
would call colonial, if we weren’t in Sweden. The flanking
mansions are two-story miniatures of the main house.
Nicholas points to the one on the left, “This house is for you
ladies. My Grandfather does not let unmarried women sleep in the main
house, to tempt us impressionable boys.”
Chauncey steps out of the passenger seat, “I think an
impressionable boy is headed this way.”
I don’t know about ‘impressionable’ or ‘boy,’
but someone heads our way. He’s huge: looks a bit like Thor,
the thunder god (or how I imagine Thor). He’s as casual as
Nicholas is formal, wearing an outfit I wouldn’t be surprised
to catch my dad in, when he’s carving wood. He approaches
Nicholas, speaking another language, presumably Swedish, and grins.
Even with the outfit, being twice Nicolas’ girth, and his
plethora of gruff blond facial hair, the man is obviously a relation.
He stops a few feet from Nicholas, not noticing us, standing by the
car. When the man’s Swedish continues
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