The Catswold Portal

If she didn’t obey the king, he would make her wish she had. She decided she would just go out and explain to him that she didn’t want to share his bed. Be direct was what Mag always said. She would be nice to him, but firm. She reached for the latch but then drew back.

To be nice to a man when he was primed for the bed, could lead a girl straight into that bed.

She turned away. King or not, she wasn’t going out there to share his picnic.

She began to wonder how long he would wait in the vineyard. Suddenly, feeling giddy, she knew what she must do.

She fled for the scullery and the back stairs. At this one moment she knew exactly where the king was, and if she was fast, she could be in his chambers and out again with the Harpy’s mirror while he waited for her in the vineyard.

Chapter 12

“University of Chicago,” Olive Cleaver said, dusting cake crumbs from her flowered dress. Under her brushing hand, orange birds of paradise jabbed across a purple field. She sat opposite Braden at his terrace table drinking coffee and eating the cake she had baked. Her frizzy gray hair and sallow face were not flattered by the bright afternoon light and the Woolworth dress, but her eyes were intelligent and lively. “The carbon fourteen test was developed there. It’s a wonderful new test; it will entirely change historical research.”

Braden watched Olive, amused not by her facts, which were perfectly correct, but by her enthusiasm. She had come down the garden bringing the carrot cake, wanting to talk. Such gifts embarrassed him, but he had made fresh coffee, brought some plates and forks out on the terrace, wiped off the table. Olive never bothered him when he was working, but seeing him on the terrace in the middle of the day was all the invitation she needed.

“I took only one splinter from each of the five planks,” she said. “I wanted to know if they were all the same age. They were.” She nodded when he lifted the coffeepot, accepting a refill. “All they do is burn the material. The gases from the burning are converted to carbon and put into a special Geiger counter—well, I’m sure you know more about it than I do. I know you do read something besides art magazines.”

She blew delicately on her coffee. “Of course the test will tell only the age of the timbers, not of the carvings themselves. But still, it isn’t so likely that new carvings would be made on very ancient timbers.

“I do wish, though, they wouldn’t take so long. I suppose they have a backlog, and of course legitimate research comes first.” She looked up the garden toward the oak door. Anne Hollingsworth’s orange cat was sitting in the ferns staring intently at the door, almost as if drawn to it. Olive said, “If the door is very old, I feel as Alice did, that it should be in a museum. Yet I can’t bear to think of removing it. That door is why I bought the house, it was the door that first led me into the garden.” She cut her cake into small bites. “And after all, maybe it is a copy. Anne thinks it is.”

And of course Anne would, Braden thought. Their neighbor, Anne Hollingsworth, had a mathematical mind that would never believe something so improbable as a valuable antique standing forgotten in their garden. He looked up the garden, fixing on Anne’s staid Cape Cod house, traditional and unexciting. Anne wasn’t given to Olive’s fanciful flights and enthusiasms. Nor did she succumb, either, to Morian’s brand of keen relish for living.

It amused him that he had three female neighbors who were his good friends. He toyed with his cake, wondering why, in his thoughts, he wanted to defend the antiquity of the door against Anne’s unimaginative turn of mind.

Olive said, “If it should prove very old…” She didn’t finish, but looked at Braden intently, her glasses catching the light. She was trying to say something she didn’t know how to say. Above them the orange cat had risen and was coming down the garden toward the veranda.

She said, “The door makes me feel sometimes that it has more to it than…I don’t know.” She looked embarrassed. “Even if it should prove valuable, I would not like to move it from the garden.” Some nebulous idea had taken hold of her. Olive got these hunches, went off on tangents. Braden really didn’t want to hear it.

She watched him quietly. “You don’t like the idea of it being an antique?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You know my research is solid.”

He nodded, trying to shake off the strangeness he felt. For all her quirks, Olive was a competent researcher; she didn’t go off on wild chases in that respect, didn’t use spurious sources. She was just so damned intense. Well, hell, maybe the door was ancient. He knew she had done weeks of careful work before she sent the splinters off to be analyzed. The orange cat came onto the veranda and lay down at Olive’s feet, looking up at her expectantly. She cut a bite of cake and gave it to him.