The Big Steal (12 page)

I was turning to leave when I realized I was looking into a pair of tiny orange eyes. I screamed as some critter darted toward me and then ran between my legs. I must have jumped a foot off the floor. The flashlight flew out of my hand, and I careened into the tilting wall. I looked up to see it moving toward me like a drawbridge.

Dear Antiques Expert: On a tour of historic homes in Louisiana our guide pointed out a bird print by James Audubon in almost every house. Are his prints terribly rare or expensive?

John James Audubon, whose lavishly illustrated
Birds of America
is a classic, was born in Haiti and lived in France. But it was Louisiana's unspoiled and exotic wildlife that Audubon found captivating, which explains the popularity of Audubon's prints in that region. Today, because of their rarity, original 19th-century Audubon prints sell for many tens of thousands of dollars each. Reproductions of Audubon's prints can range from a few dollars to a couple thousand dollars, depending on quality. “Antique” Audubon prints should be purchased only from a highly reputable dealer to avoid buying a replica or fake.

“D
OGS
.” M
ISS
M
ARY
S
OPHIE
held her teacup halfway between her lap and her lips. Her multiple chins shook as she nodded her head. “‘Dogs.' That was Mazie Wyndfield's dying last word. Not what you would expect from a woman who hated dogs.”

We were seated in the library at Oakcliffe, Miss Mary Sophie's ancestral home. It was a large, handsome room with leather bound books on the shelves and English hunting prints on the wall. A fire warmed the room and high above the walnut mantelpiece a stately gentleman painted in oils lorded over it all. There was no doubt the room was lived in. Books were everywhere, opened on the tables, stacked on the floor, even balanced on the library steps leaning against one of the top shelves. The room had an air of timeless elegance that no
Elle Decor
or
Architectural Digest
center spread could duplicate. Miss Mary Sophie, who had been reading the
Wall Street Journal
when I walked in, provided the perfect finishing touch in her English tweeds.

After my attic experience at Wynderly, I had been hoping for a stronger beverage. Even sherry, the old ladies' drink, would have been fine. Instead, I settled for tea when Miss Mary Sophie's maid, Nora, brought it.

“So you knew Mazie well, too,” I said. “Like Worth Merritt.”

“Quite well, even though Mazie was my senior by twenty years.” Miss Mary Sophie placed her teacup on the coffee table. “Around here, at least back in the old days, everyone knew everyone, either socially or through the community—doing work on the farms or running into one another through the natural course of the day. The mailman, the grocer, everyone. My father and Hoyt were contemporaries. In fact, Hoyt often sat in that very chair.” She nodded toward a leather lounging chair across the room. “My father was best man at Hoyt and Mazie's wedding. Would you like to see a picture?”

Miss Mary Sophie rose without waiting for my reply. “Hoyt
and Daddy were thirty-one or two and Mazie was twenty-two, if I remember correctly,” she said as she crossed the room, slowly—she had left her cane propped against her chair—rather regally, I noted. I had no doubt that Miss Mary Sophie remembered
everything
correctly.

She picked up a black and white photograph in a silver frame from among several on the table, but another picture, now visible, caught my eye. I wondered who was the handsome uniformed man wearing his officer's hat at a rakish tilt.

“Quite lovely, aren't they, the three of them,” Miss Mary Sophie said, handing me the picture in her hand. “Of course I remember how old Mazie was when she married. How could I forget? That's how old I was when I married.”

She knew she had surprised me. I felt her eyes on me, watching for my reaction.

“Thought I was an old maid, didn't you, dear? Oh no.”

Her “Oh no” and its accompanying smile left little doubt that Miss Mary Sophie Wellington McLeod had relished the married life.

“Eric and I were married quickly, impulsively. Our love was blind, the way it ought to be. It was 1941. That's him, over there,” she said, pointing toward the table.

My heart sank. Hearing the date, I knew what was bound to come next.

“He had just graduated from college—the University, of course. I had finished Sweet Briar the year before. We were both from Virginia, but we met in Philadelphia of all places. We had barely known one another for two weeks when Pearl Harbor came. Naturally my family insisted I come home, as they should have. But I wasn't about to leave him. It was the
only time in my life I defied my parents. We married ten days later. A year and ten months to the day I was widowed.” Her voice trailed away. “Oh, I had other suitors. But no one could ever take Eric's place.”

Then, turning back to me, her voice lighter, more spirited, her face radiant, she said, “I don't have to tell you that over the years as I grew older the children at church and around town were told to call poor, poor Mrs. McLeod ‘Miss Mary Sophie.'” She chuckled. “It's never bothered me. I've had a comfortable life.” She gestured to the things around her. “My father saw to that, and his father before him. With Eric, I'd had much more happiness in a short time than many people have in a lifetime.”

I struggled to see Miss Mary Sophie young and carefree, wearing the look of love. Was I seeing myself in years to come? As hard as I tried to silence it, Mother's voice rang out in my head:
I feel it, when I sorrow most; / 'Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all
. I swallowed back a lump in my throat and felt sorry for myself.

“Probably even Mazie,” Miss Mary Sophie said so softly I hardly heard her.

“Oh?” That roused me out of my pitiful reverie. “Mazie?” I said. “But, I thought she and Hoyt lived a
charmed
life.”

Miss Mary Sophie folded her arms in front of her and lowered her eyes. “Too many secrets. Too many lies to live,” she said.

“Tell me, Miss Mar—” I stopped myself.

She smiled. “That's OK, dear. That's what I like to be called. It fits.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said out of habit and training. “Was Mazie Catholic?” I asked.

“What an interesting question.” Miss Mary Sophie paused and leaned forward, picked up her teacup, then put it back without drinking from it. Her puzzled eyes met mine. “She never went to Mass that I know of. She and Hoyt attended the little Episcopal church down the way on occasion. Certainly not regularly. They traveled so much. And partied.” She broke into a mischievous smile. “Mazie did pray a lot, though,” she said reflectively. “Up in the attic there is supposed to be a secret place. Well, actually, I
know
there was one at one time, but whether it is still there?” She shrugged and looked aside, as if she were keeping from saying more. “So many changes have taken place. Much has been lost track of. The foundation board has gone through staff changes every few months for who knows how many years now. Disgusting, really. And this Michelle—” The corners of her mouth turned down in distaste.

“I shouldn't have said that,” she said. “I'm sure the young woman is well intended, it's just … Well, I remember the time I overheard her say to a school group, ‘Mazie was like a princess living in an ivory tower.'
Really
now. Many people lived, and continue to live,
much
grander lives than the Wyndfields—and without so much show. Princely? That's hardly the image
or
the legacy the old families around here would have wanted to pass on. Frankly, I'm not sure the young woman is well suited for the job. She lacks poise. Polish. Of course her title means nothing. She hasn't a background in art and antiques. Why, she's little more than a guide. A hostess.
What does she do other than show strangers around, which should be done more graciously. Yes, I find her edges a little too rough—” Miss Mary Sophie heaved, her heavy chest falling on her stomach.

“Then again, maybe all that bragging about the Wyndfields is just to cover up what she doesn't know,” she said as if rethinking her remarks. “Whatever the reason, I'm afraid I find her unsuitable.”

“Then why was she given the responsible job?”

“We had drained the well dry long ago,” she said. “Over the years the board brought in people with degrees and pedigrees. But these days they're nothing but a greedy bunch. Either passing through … what do they call it, on a career path? Or looking to pilfer what they can while everyone else's back is turned. Yes, we've had our share of those.”

Who besides Dr. Landerley, I wondered.

“Such a shame that it can't be like the old days when there were respected professions and honorable careers. Librarians, museum people, professors, schoolteachers … oh, the teachers. They didn't make much money, but they were admired and revered. They shaped us and the people around us, and in so doing made our lives richer. It's all changed so much. Too much.” She shook her head sadly.

“Although, Michelle's being there is partly my fault,” she added. “Though in my defense, when I voted to take the young woman on I thought she'd have a deeper appreciation for what Wynderly stands for. After all, her family came to these parts when Wynderly was being built. From Louisiana. Like Mazie. In fact, Mazie brought them here.”

“Really? How did that happen?”

“They came to work there. Hoyt spared no expense on anything. There were plenty of brick masons and wood-carvers in these parts. Georgian and Federal are our traditions, you know. But Wynderly called for craftsmen who could work with marble and stucco and paint cupids on the ceilings.” She wrinkled her mouth up in distaste. “So, Hoyt brought them from Europe. And when Mazie said she missed the food from home, dear Hoyt, in his accommodating way, brought in the Fortiers … Daphne and Jacques. They were Michelle's, let's see, grand—no,
great
-grandparents, I do believe. Daphne cooked and Jacques gardened and painted, especially flowers and birds. His birds were magnificent. Someone up here started a ridiculous rumor that Jacques Fortier had descended from the Audubon line back when Audubon was painting the birds down in Louisiana,” she said. “There was no truth in that, of course, but, you see, Audubon was illegitimate, so people just assumed
he
…” She broke off.

“You know. Guess that's what made it easy for the rumor to get started.” Without missing a beat, she added, “Isn't it
terrible
how the past stays with you. The sins of the father, and all that stuff … and it's not even your fault. I ask you, what does it matter who Jacques Fortier was kin too?”

Hardly the words I expected to come from Miss Mary Sophie, especially on the heels of her judgmental remarks concerning Michelle. I was mystified. Might I have misheard her, this woman whom I was sure had never in her life missed a meeting of the Colonial Dames, Daughters of the American Revolution, or United Daughters of the Confederacy? I was tempted to ask Miss Mary Sophie to repeat her last sentence, but she had already moved on.

“Obviously Jacques Fortier was quite talented. His murals are outstanding, and the gardens he designed and planted were magnificent—even if they were more, well, shall we say
flamboyant
than the English gardens we Virginians prefer. But they're mostly gone now—overgrown and dreary. None of it is what it used to be—the house, the gardens. The people.”

Miss Mary Sophie pulled herself out of her self-imposed gloom. “Anyway, the Fortiers had a daughter who came with them. Babette. I guess it goes without saying that Babette was a little wild. All that French blood and a name like that. She left home early … only fifteen or so. A short time thereafter she returned with a little girl, but no husband. Now what
was
that child's name?” Miss Mary Sophie paused to think.

“Actually, Babette's daughter turned out to be quite solid. She married a nice boy from over near Crozet. Michelle Hendrix is
her
daughter, Babette's granddaughter. Mazie and Hoyt left some sort of trust to look after the Fortiers.”

The old woman paused and looked straight at me. Her face took on a graveness I had not seen before. “In these parts, my dear, we still believe noblesse oblige is part of our responsibility. Looking after our own is, well, it's our
custodial
obligation. It's as much a part of our tradition as honoring our heritage. Hoyt's family always looked after the colored people, even after the War. It was a
tradition
that the Wyndfields remembered their servants, black or white, in their wills.”

Miss Mary Sophie stopped abruptly. She picked up her cane, then put it down with an angry thud. “It's such a shame we had to have that little disagreement with the Yankees, isn't it? They never
did
understand how we took care of our slaves.”

I almost choked on my tea. Miss Mary Sophie, so proper and judgmental one minute and forgiving the next, was no more concerned with the propriety of what she had said than if she had asked the time of day.

“Nothing we can do about it now,” she said. “As far as the arrangements Hoyt made for Fortiers' heirs …” Her voice trailed off. “Of course I wouldn't know the details,” she continued, “but Frederick Graham would,
if
you could pry the information out of him, which I doubt. This much I
do
know, though. There was money for Michelle to go to college. I doubt if she even knew how she came by it. I'm not sure what she did between the time she graduated and when she came back here, but about the time she returned, the position for curator came open,
again
. By then it wasn't as if we were looking for a
real
curator. Just a warm body, and she was here.” Miss Mary Sophie shrugged. “Michelle has been a … well, I'd call her a temporary fix.”