The Silver Ghost (2 page)

“No, I couldn’t. I didn’t bring anything else to put on.”

Her aunt refrained from commenting on Sarah’s lack of foresight. Her niece would know better another time, now that she’d been made aware of her shortcoming. Boadicea never nagged, she merely pointed out the proper course of action and assumed thenceforth it would be followed. She had read Norman Vincent Peak’s book
The Power of Positive Thinking
as a young woman and never forgotten its message. She was thus able to find a positive word for Lorista and her consort, even though Lorista had now begun singing a ballad about the ratcatcher’s wife and the fiddle-de-dee.

“Such diligence is commendable. I assume the musicians are donating their services. Bill assures me they’re going to stop soon. He’s scheduled a program of uninterrupted Renaissance music to be played over his local radio station during the banquet.”

“Dear me, can one do that?” cried Apollonia. “I must get hold of WCRB about our church bazaar. Bach and Purcell, don’t you think?”

“Nonsense, Appie.” Boadicea spoke crisply because one really had to be crisp with Apollonia Kelling. “Bill can choose his own program for the reason that he owns the station. His object is to allow the listening audience to share our enjoyment of the auditory portion of the revel, thereby furthering the spirit of universal brotherhood to which he and Abigail are so laudably dedicated.”

“But the audience won’t know we’re reveling and they won’t get any mead.” Appie investigated her own pewter flagon and discovered it to be empty. “I believe I’ll wander off and see if I can find a serving wench, or do I mean potboy? Shall I get some for you, Bodie?”

“Thank you, no. I’m fine for the moment. We must concede, Sarah,” Boadicea added as the other aunt took herself off wenchward, “that Appie’s point is well taken. Some of the experiments Bill performs with those radio stations of his seem to presuppose a higher level of rapport with his public than may in fact exist. With regard to the mead, however, delivering their fair share to the listeners would be difficult to achieve and quite possibly a violation of the alcoholic beverage distribution laws. It’s as well Bill abstained from making the attempt. I do hope Appie doesn’t break her neck tripping over that skirt.”

M
OST OF THE REVELERS
had obliged their hosts by showing up in mediaeval or Renaissance costumes. Sarah wasn’t enough of a scholar to sort out which was which and didn’t suppose it mattered. Even experts could be ambiguous as to exactly when the Middle Ages left off and the rebirth of culture began. A few seemed to be of the opinion that the Renaissance was still going on. This left plenty of latitude for choice and the guests had used it all.

Some would have simply rented appropriate garb for the day. Others, like Professor Ufford, must have had authentic costumes made to order at no small expense. Spectacular outfits such as his had probably been gracing the Billings gates’ revels already for some years and would no doubt appear again and again, so the expense would be amortized over a long period. Then there were those who’d chosen to improvise, of whom Apollonia Kelling was definitely one.

Sarah realized that her aunt’s costume must be based on the evening gown Appie used to wear on opening nights at the Huntington Avenue Opera House. Sarah only knew about these openings from hearsay, the opera house having been torn down shortly before she herself was born, but she had seen clippings in Uncle Jem’s scrapbook. This was the gown that had strained the society editors’ ingenuity to the point of cracking. One year Mrs. Samuel Kelling would be reported as having appeared in kingfisher blue, the next year in teal blue, the following year cobalt blue, then on to cerulean blue, azure blue, bluebonnet blue, forget-me-not blue, and finally back to kingfisher.
*

By now the gown was a decidedly faded blue, but Appie had cheered it up with a screaming orange overblouse, probably borrowed from her daughter-in-law, and a good many strings of beads relatives had brought her from time to time as souvenirs of places they’d visited. Chains of polished quahog shells from Maine joggled together with seed pods from Papua and fake scarabs from Cairo, perhaps symbolizing the far-flung explorations carried out during the Renaissance.

For a headdress, Appie had simply pinned the open end of a white linen pillowcase around her head like a coif and let the rest of the case flop down her back. It was rather flapping than flopping just now, as a brisk wind had sprung up. On Appie’s tall, gaunt figure the effect was that of laundry blowing around a clothes pole. Boadicea gazed after her cousin, interested but not censorious.

“Appie is enjoying herself. I myself saw no reason to bother about a costume. The dress I have on is middle-aged enough as it is, and so am I. Have you seen Drusilla Gaheris around anywhere, Sarah?”

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t know her if I did.”

“Not unless you were introduced today. There was that possibility. Drusilla is almost certainly here, since she’s Abigail’s house guest. I do realize, however, that you and Mr. Bittersohn—”

“Do call him Max.”

“Very well, if you wish me to,” Boadicea conceded. “That you and Max, as I was about to say, had not been acquainted with the Billingsgates and their circle before that unfortunate business with Wouter, Tolbathy.
**
I grant you Wouter was always an odd duck, but so many inventors are, don’t you think? Too bad he was never able to adapt his undoubted genius to any useful purpose. Ah, here comes Drusilla now, with Hester Tolbathy.”

“Oh, good,” said Sarah. “I do like Hester so much.”

“It’s quite likely you’ll enjoy Drusilla, too.”

Sarah thought it possible. Mrs. Gaheris looked sensible enough, anyway, in a drab-colored costume with a lighter coif. Sarah thought at first Aunt Bodie’s friend had come as a nun, then she remembered the habits worn by religious orders until recent years were in fact survivals of middle-class sixteenth-century housewives’ daily garb.

Hester, on the other hand, had flung herself headlong into the festival spirit. Her gown was of purple satin over a wide-spreading farthingale, with a gold embroidered stomacher and a stiffened lace collar that must have been hell to wear. Her abundant white hair was dressed high with artificial roses and a chain of real amethysts. Rings flashed on thumbs and finger joints as she held out both hands to Sarah.

“The little mother! How lovely you look, Sarah dear. Did you bring your baby with you?”

“No, Davy’s not quite ready for grown-up parties yet. He’s back at Ireson’s Landing with his aunt and his grandma.”

“Being gloriously spoiled, no doubt. But he’s thriving?”

“He was fine the last I heard.”

“Which was?”

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Sarah confessed. “Max teases me about being overanxious, but if I don’t keep checking, he reminds me.”

“That wears off after the first one,” Hester assured her. “And you really like living year-round at Ireson’s Landing? You don’t miss Boston at all?”

“Not a bit. We love our new house and it’s marvelous being so close to the ocean and to Max’s family. He grew up on the North Shore, you know, and I’ve spent so many summers there that we felt at home from the very first day. Anyway, we do still have the Beacon Hill house. My cousin Brooks and his wife live there; but we keep a couple of rooms upstairs for ourselves to use whenever we decide to stay in town.”

“That sounds like an ideal arrangement. Bodie, how good to see you. Did you drive all the way from Wenham by yourself? Drusilla Gaheris, do you know Bodie’s niece, Sarah Bittersohn? She was Walter Kelling’s daughter.”

“Then you must be Lionel’s cousin,” said Mrs. Gaheris. “How do you do, Sarah? Lionel married my niece, Varine.”

“Oh, Vare, of course. She mentioned an aunt who lived abroad.”

“Yes, my husband was with the State Department. He died in Switzerland this past year and I decided I didn’t want to stay over there by myself. I must say it’s lovely to be among my own connections again, and to be meeting so many new ones. I missed both Vare’s and Lorista’s weddings, along with far too many other family functions, though I’d known both Lionel and Dorkie as little boys. They’re quite good, don’t you think?”

The morris dancers were still leaping and kicking, still in perfect unison, still with no sign of flagging. With their ribbons and bells, they made a merry sight to watch, even though their faces were grim enough. Like true Yankees, they were determined to have a good time if it killed them all. Even the wheezings and creakings of Lorista’s consort didn’t sound too bad in the open air. Village bands of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries probably wouldn’t have been any better, Sarah told herself.

Soon, though, Lorista raised her recorder high and brought it down with a savage slash, narrowly missing the
cor anglais.
Music and dancers came smartly to a halt. Onlookers clapped. Potboys bustled up with fistfuls of flagons. Lionel stuck his batons into the belt of his doublet and walked over to where the four women were standing.

“Well, Aunt Bodie, Aunt Drusilla. Good to see you, Mrs. Tolbathy. Where’s Max, Sarah?”

“Around somewhere.”

“Ungh. Seen Mother?”

“Appie was with us a little while ago,” said Boadicea. “I believe she may have gone into the pavilion. Allow me to compliment you on your dancing, Lionel. The morris dance is of ancient origin, is it not?”

“That depends on what you call ancient,” was his gracious reply.

“I call myself ancient,” said Hester Tolbathy, “and my feet are going to start aching in about one minute if I don’t find a place to sit down.”

“What about that bench under the tree?” Sarah suggested.

“It looks as if the birds have been there first,” Mrs. Gaheris objected. “Isn’t there someplace cleaner, and softer?”

“We could go into the pavilion,” said Hester.

“Or up to the car shed,” said Boadicea. “I must confess that when the reveling gets a bit too much for me, I always slip off and sit in one of Bill’s Rolls Royces.”

Drusilla Gaheris raised her eyebrows as far as her starched coif would allow. “I know Abigail and Bill each drive a Rolls. Don’t tell me there are more?”

“Nine in all, I believe.”

“No, ten,” Hester Tolbathy corrected. “Bill gave Abigail a 1927 Silver Cloud for Christmas this past year. They’re all antiques, Drusilla. Heaven only knows what they’re worth by now.”

“Oh, but we mustn’t give Drusilla the idea Bill simply went out and squandered a lot of money on them,” cried Boadicea. “How it started, Drusilla, was that Bill’s grandfather bought one of the early models in 1908, I believe it was. Then of course the cars kept getting better, so he bought another in 1916. Then Bill’s father was given one for his graduation from Harvard in 1924 and his sister Eglantine got hers as a wedding present.”

“And then the Depression came along and people were selling off their Rollses for whatever they could get,” Hester went on, “so the Billingsgates picked up a couple more for Bill and his brother Ralph to drive when they got old enough. Naturally one doesn’t trundle a Rolls off to the junkyard and I suppose it seemed rather vulgar to turn them in, so they simply accumulated. After a while, the Rollses became something of a family joke. Bill’s parents gave him and Abigail a 1945 Sedanca de ville to go honeymooning in, and so it went. It’s got so that whenever Bill sees an old Rolls going at a bargain, he just buys the car and stuffs it in with the rest of them.”

“What a fascinating hobby,” said Mrs. Gaheris. “Do they all work?”

“Oh yes,” Hester assured her. “I’m sure you’ll be dragged off to a rally as soon as we’ve recovered from the revel. We go in a bunch: Tom and I and the Dorks and the Whets and our various offspring and their wives. Or husbands, as the case may be. And Bill and Abigail, needless to say. I expect you’ll get to drive the New Phantom.”

“Me? I’d be scared to touch it.”

“When were you ever scared of anything? Remember how we used to pile into that Chevy roadster of yours with the rumble seat and go whooping around like a pack of Zelda Fitzgeralds? Ah, those were the days and aren’t you glad we don’t have to live them over? Come on, Drusilla, let’s go see the cars.”

But they couldn’t. Sarah wondered whether or not she should be the one to break the news that the car shed had been declared out of bounds for the day. She didn’t particularly mind sending Aunt Bodie on a wild goose chase, but it did seem a shame for Hester Tolbathy to drag her farthingale all the way up there for nothing.

Luckily, the matter was taken out of her hands. Two of the musicians, now carrying brass trumpets fully a yard long and wearing tabards emblazoned with what was presumably the Billingsgate coat of arms, a bee
volant
on a field
semé,
marched to the front of the pavilion and began creating a terrible din. The banquet was announced.

And a banquet in sooth it was. Renaissance revelers had evidently been hearty feeders, when they got the chance, and the Billingsgates weren’t about to dishonor the tradition. Even Max was impressed.

“My God, this looks like a Newton bar mitzvah. What is all that stuff, anyway?”

There’d been some fudging of recipes to suit modern tastes, and a few pardonable subterfuges. The peacock pies, for instance, were only turkey under borrowed plumage and the swans but geese. The baron of beef, the larded capons, and the sallets of herbs were authentic as could be. So, no doubt, was the huge silver bowl full of something gruelish that sat square in the middle of the laden trestle. Even Sarah couldn’t guess what it might be.

“Frumenty,” said Marcia Whet, who happened to be standing beside them. “Just whole wheat boiled in milk and spices, actually. Abigail always sets it out because she feels it’s the thing to do, but she doesn’t really expect us to eat any. Take half a spoonful for manners and leave it on your plate, that’s what I always do.”

As she spoke, Marcia gave herself a generous helping without seeming to notice she was doing so. Max decided to pass up the frumenty, then shrugged and helped both himself and Sarah to a dollop.

“
Ess, ess, mein Kind.
It’s probably good for you.”