Timekeeper (11 page)

“Go and have a good look at the house. It’s quite incredible,” Oliver tells me enthusiastically before he and Lucas return to their duties.

I walk through the grounds of the estate as if in a dream, taking in the gleaming white marble mansion. The four-story structure reminds me of the paintings I’ve studied at university depicting palazzos of the Italian Renaissance, and for a moment I imagine that I, Irving Henry, am in Europe! Loggias, balconies, and arched windows decorate the mansion’s exterior, while towering white columns frame the entrance. As I make my way through the grassy front lawn and rose garden that lead to the front doors, I can tell before even stepping inside that this is the finest home the Windsors have ever built.

My first instinct is to look for the servants’ entrance, until I remember Rebecca’s insistence that I am to be her guest for the holiday, and that it “wouldn’t be proper” for me to consort with the staff this week. I can hardly imagine how she managed to wangle this invitation from her parents, though I suppose they view it as a charitable gesture for the son of the butler who faithfully served them until his death. And of course, I know the money has turned me into a figure of some interest. It certainly isn’t every day that a butler dies leaving enough savings to send his orphaned son to preparatory school and university.

I climb the steps hesitantly, wondering if it isn’t too late to find the door to the servants’ hall. But before I have a chance to retreat, the front door swings open and the new butler, Rupert, stands before me.

“Irving! Isn’t this the nicest Christmas treat to have you back,” he says happily.

I embrace him warmly. It’s difficult to see anyone else in the position my father always held, but Rupert is like a godfather to me. He is in large part responsible for my change in circumstances. After my father died of a heart attack when I was a boy of thirteen, Rupert—then Mr. Windsor’s valet—took me upstairs to see the master, holding a copy of my father’s most recent will, written two years earlier. Mr. Windsor read the paper several times over, squinting in disbelief.

“How in the world did he amass this kind of money
?” he demanded.

“Byron saved up all of his wages, sir, all these years he’s been here,”
Rupert had explained, his voice breaking as he spoke of my father, his friend.
“I knew him well and he rarely ever spent a penny; he invested everything with the bank. He told me he was saving for Irving to go to university. He wanted his son to be a gentleman.”

Mr. Windsor was silent for a moment, then turned to give me a serious look.
“I will take you to the bank tomorrow, Irving. Once we verify the funds, I’ll have you enrolled in a fine boarding school. You have no family named in this will, so you may return here for your winter and summer holidays for as long as you are in school. You can help the footmen with their duties in exchange for room and board.”

I’d nodded with gratitude, though at thirteen years old I was unable to comprehend what this rapid change in my circumstances meant.

The final paragraph of the will was something none of us had understood.
“Equally if not more important than the funds for Irving’s university education is the key that I leave for him, an heirloom that was very precious to me and will be to him as well. Please keep it for life, my son, only passing it to one of your children when it is time.”

But none of us ever found a key, not even after searching and emptying my father’s room and his deposit box at the bank. I’d never heard Father even speak of a key, and I wondered if that part of the will was some sort of metaphor, a symbolic message that I have yet to understand. I ponder it often. The words of his will sounded so urgent, how could the meaning behind them be so obscure?

I force my mind back to the present. “It’s grand to see you too, Rupert. This new house is …” I shake my head, unable to find the words.

“Just wait, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Rupert grins. “Let me show you to your room.” He takes my trunk from me, and as I start to protest, Rupert holds up his hand firmly. “The Miss wants you treated like a guest this holiday, and so you will be.”

I sheepishly follow Rupert into the main entrance vestibule, which is enough to stop me in my tracks.

“It’s a palace!” I exclaim, walking around the open-air indoor courtyard, which is decorated with marble columns, lush carpets, dazzling chandeliers, and silk draperies. A ten-foot-tall Christmas tree stands in full splendor in the center of the room, lavished with hundreds of twinkling lights and enchanting ornaments. As I breathe in its piney scent, I glance up and see the hallways of the second and third floors, framed by bronze railings and marble pillars.

“A palace is a very fitting description,” Rupert agrees. “This room is called the Grand Hall. It is the central reception area of the house.”

He leads me to the sprawling marble staircase and up two flights until we reach the rooms on the third floor. A dark wood
balcony overlooks the floors below, and I stop to look down on the Christmas tree in the Grand Hall before following Rupert to my guestroom.

“The family’s rooms are on the left, guest rooms to the right,” Rupert directs. We walk through a long red-carpeted corridor until he finally stops in front of a white doorframe. “Here are your guest quarters.”

I step inside, and for a moment I am too overwhelmed to speak. It’s the nicest room I’ve ever had, with a colorful carpet filling the vast space, a double bed that looks cozier than anything I’ve ever slept on, a wooden chest of drawers, a bedside table with its own gas lamp, two plush armchairs, and various objets d’art.

“I never thought I’d stay in a room like this,” I admit. “Bless Rebecca for her kindness.”

“I don’t know that anyone could accuse Miss Rebecca of kindness,” Rupert replies, his tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. I look up, startled.

“What is it? What’s Rebecca done now?”

Rupert looks as if he regrets his outburst. “She gives the other servants a bad time,” he says haltingly. “It’s strange, when she’s always taken such a shine to you. Though the ladies’ maids have said on a few occasions that your face could make up for anything, even a lower-class birth.” He laughs, and I shake my head with embarrassment.

A few minutes after Rupert leaves the room, I hear the sound of my doorknob turning. I glance at the door and see my oldest friend, Rebecca Windsor, dart inside, gazing at me with
the excitable expression of an animal that has found its prey. I find myself taking a step back as I doff my hat.

“Merry Christmas, Rebecca! Jolly good to see you. But if someone were to find you in my room—”

“
I
don’t care if they do.” She gives a little turn around the room. “What do you think?”

“It’s fantastic!” I enthuse. “I was just telling Rupert that it’s like a palace. You must love living here.”

“I wasn’t asking about the
house
,” Rebecca says scornfully. “I meant, what do you think of this?” She gestures to herself, dressed up in a cranberry-colored velvet gown with a large bustle.

I struggle for something to say. The truth is, Rebecca has never been pleasant to look at, from the paleness of her severe face to the sharp features below her heavy dark eyebrows, and black hair that always looks rather snakelike. Most people I know find Rebecca fearsome, with her harsh looks and sharp temper. I’m one of only a few who aren’t intimidated by her.

I was just a baby living with my father in the servants’ quarters of Rebecca’s home when she was born. I was there when she walked her first steps, and to the general amazement of the Windsors and their staff, she singled me out to be her one and only friend when we were children. We played together, and then endured adolescence, always set apart by our social standing—though Rebecca never made me feel unimportant for being the butler’s son. Instead she was possessive of me, and I could never help feeling flattered by her attentions.

“Well?” she presses, reaching for a compliment.

“You look lovely,” I lie. “That dress is very becoming.”

She smirks, squeezing my hand. “I have something quite unbelievable to tell you,” she whispers. “It’s a secret. You are likely to be the
only
person I will tell. It’s the finest secret I’ve ever had.”

My interest is piqued. “Tell me, then.”

“Not yet. The dinner guests will be arriving any minute. No, I think I’ll tell you after the party,” she says with a mysterious smile.

The Christmas Eve festivities last well into the evening, and I nearly forget about Rebecca’s big secret as I experience my first Windsor dinner party abovestairs. It’s a small affair consisting of family and close acquaintances, but there is still an army of servants stationed throughout the mansion to tend to the guests. Mr. and Mrs. Windsor, Rebecca, and her older brother, George, are like the royal family greeting their subjects, standing by the Christmas tree in the Grand Hall to receive each guest before they proceed into the drawing room. Rupert announces their names loudly before they approach the Windsors, and when he calls out “Mr. Irving Henry,” I feel my face turn bright red.

The drawing room looks like a temple of excess, from the fragrant flowers filling every corner to the exaggerated gowns and excessive jewels adorning the women and the gaudy gold pocket watches carried by the men. I stand alone in a corner, feeling uncomfortable and out of place as I watch my footmen friends pouring drinks. After half an hour, Rupert arrives and stands importantly in the doorway.

“Madame, the Christmas Eve dinner is served!”

I take Rebecca’s arm and we follow the procession into the dining room, right behind George and his fiancée, Henrietta. “Isn’t she an awful hag?” Rebecca snickers in my ear as we walk behind the two of them. I cringe, hoping they didn’t hear her words.

The meal is a ten-course feast, beginning with oysters on the half shell followed by turtle soup, then striped bass in a heavy cream sauce and a Christmas turkey stuffed with truffles. Roman punch cleanses the palate before the next round of dishes: canvasback duck and a mixed lettuce salad. The final course is dessert, a tasty Christmas pudding followed by petits fours and plates of cheese and fruit. I only manage a few bites of each dish, never having eaten like this in my life, and I notice that nearly everyone else leaves their plates half-touched too. I suddenly feel queasy as I think of all the food that will be thrown out uneaten at the end of the night.

I listen with interest to the dinner conversation, hoping for nuggets of knowledge from the titans of real estate in the family. Yet the conversation is light and breezy, with the Windsors and their guests mainly discussing yachts, horses, and houses. I find myself itching for the company of the servants belowstairs—I know the conversation will be much livelier there!

While I watch the footmen bring round the endless courses, and listen to the chatter at the table, my mind ponders the way people in our Gilded Age equate wealth with freedom. But in this world, the wealthier are all the more trapped—like Rebecca, who I know is under pressure to find some sort of duke or count to marry. The wealthy Americans of our day are ensnared
by their rules and rituals, hiding behind the European monarchs that they so desperately copy instead of forging their own identities. I wonder if this will remain the case in the decades to come.

At last, the end of the meal is signaled by the arrival of coffee and sparkling water. Mrs. Windsor leads the ladies into the drawing room, while we men linger at the table to smoke cigars and sip brandy. The men and women reconvene for a private recital of arias from Handel’s Messiah to conclude the evening. Finally, when the last guest has departed and the Windsors are upstairs in bed, Rebecca sneaks into my guestroom to reveal her secret.

I sit in an armchair opposite Rebecca, unable to believe the words that are coming from my friend.

“Irving, I mean it.” Her low voice is filled with excitement. “I can travel into the future! I don’t know how it happened. I must have been
chosen
for this power.” Her mouth curves into a smug smile. “I’ve done it twice already, and I have so much to tell you. New York in the future, why, it’s even better than all those stodgy professors of yours predicted!”