The next day I drove out to The Haven. It was located on the North Shore of Long Island where great estates had sprung up at the turn of the century through the Second World War. Most of those grand, rambling properties had long since been cut up or had highways plowed through their hearts, victims of time, neglect, and progress. But a few were still intact, presiding like disapproving dowagers over the dreary twentieth-century landscape of gas stations, fast-food chains, and shopping malls.
The house itself was not visible from the road. I drove around the perimeter searching for an entrance. The vast property was surrounded by a crumbling stone wall covered with vines, overlooked by graceful old shade trees. It was a wonderful wall, European in character, the sort of wall one might come across while driving through the chateau country in France. Weeds lapped up against its base in scruffy little waves. Moss dripped from its cracks. Yet there was something oddly studied about the wall’s ragged appearance, as if it had been ravaged by design rather than time. Its imperfections seemed to occur at aesthetically pleasing intervals. I came to the conclusion that it was not simply a wall, but a man-made ruin enhanced by orchestrated neglect.
Finally I found the entrance to the estate. It was modest, nothing more than a gap in the wall flanked by two stone pillars, one of which had carved on it in discreet block lettering THE HAVEN. I drove up the white gravel driveway, snaking through a densely wooded area at the end of which was a vast clearing. Suddenly, the sun broke through, shining down on the huge emerald lawns unfurling on either side of the driveway. The landscape became increasingly formal as the great lawns shattered into kaleidoscopic gardens filled with brilliantly colored flowers and whimsically cut topiary trees.
One more turn and the main house appeared in front of me, glowing in the afternoon sun. I pulled into a small cobblestone courtyard and got out of the car. The temperature had dropped considerably. It was one of those restless, crisp-edged spring days that remind me of the fall. Treetops were shimmying around in the brief gusts of wind. There was a light scent of lilacs.
As I walked toward the house, it seemed to become richer in texture and more intimate. Constructed out of blocks of pale yellow stone in the manner of a French chateau, The Haven was one of the most beautifully proportioned buildings I’d ever seen. Though large, its luxury was in the detail rather than the scale. It was a precious jewel of a house, worthy of a legendary lady retired to the country.
I was just about to lift the bronze lion knocker when the door opened and a white-haired man in a black butler’s uniform emerged from the gloom and bade me enter.
“Miss Crowell?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Griffin is expecting you. Won’t you come this way, please?”
I stepped out of the bright sunlight into the cool, dark entrance hall, squinting to adjust my eyes to the change of light.
Overhead, a nosegay of lights twinkled atop a tole chandelier in the shape of a Montgolfier balloon. The floor was a checkerboard of black-and-white marble. The marble was old and smooth, the squares small and uneven, most likely transplanted from some ancient French chateau. The walls were glazed a pale grayish blue. A charming Canaletto painting of Venice hung over a magnificent eighteenth-century commode. I wondered if that was the Riesener commode Harry had sold her.
I followed the butler down the hall past several pictures, lively country scenes, all of the finest quality, discreetly lit. Our footsteps echoed as we walked. He showed me into a red library facing a garden and asked me if I cared for something to drink. I declined. He announced that Mrs. Griffin would be down shortly and left.
I sat down on the couch and looked around. Over the mantelpiece was a Delacroix painting of a young Moorish tribesman holding the reins of a black stallion. There was a superb collection of bronze horses resting on a mahogany side table. Hanging on the one wall devoid of bookcases was a glass display case filled with faded horse show ribbons. The case was surrounded by an artfully arranged selection of riding crops and hunting whips. In the fireplace, logs were stacked and set with paper, ready to be lit. The room smelled slightly of burnt wood. Bunches of bright garden flowers arranged in silver trophy cups had been placed here and there. There was a small, well-stocked bar on a butler’s tray in one corner. A variety of magazines having to do with riding and the outdoors had been neatly placed on the coffee table. It was a room where the twin themes of money and luxury played unobtrusively, like faint background music, a room whose comforts seeped deeper into one’s consciousness the longer one remained in it.
I was settling into the peace and quiet, marveling at the understatement of great wealth, when my attention was arrested by the lone photograph in the room, a formal black-and-white portrait of a young woman wearing a white satin dress. She was neither beautiful nor plain, but teetering on the edge of both. She had an uneasy expression, as if she’d been told by the photographer more than once to smile. She reminded me of myself in some ways: the narrowness of her face, the almond-shaped eyes, the awkwardness—or perhaps it was the shyness—she conveyed in her expression. Aspects of her were quite striking, in particular her long, graceful neck and sloping shoulders shown to full advantage by the dress’s scooped-out neckline. Her dark hair was arranged in a neat chignon. She wore a delicate pearl-and-diamond choker. I suspected that her face, like my own, was prettier in motion when it could be better informed by character and intelligence. Still, the photograph was quite lovely, having the soft romantic quality of another era. I thought she must be Cassandra.
It gave me an odd feeling to think that this young woman, so innocent and pristine in her white dress, so privileged and seemingly immune to the violence of the world, was dead and buried, murdered in such a gruesome way. I suddenly pictured blood spurting over the picture. I quickly turned away.
I got up to look over the books all lined up neatly in their brass bookcases. Antique and leather-bound, in no particular order, and most of them sets, they looked to me like the kinds of books purchased by the yard for their bindings rather than their content. I was about to pull one of them out when a small bug-eyed dog with streaming white hair scampered into the room and began dancing around my leg, scratching at it with his miniscule paws.
“Down, Pom-Pom! Down!” cried a voice at the door.
I looked up. Mrs. Griffin stood in the doorway, wearing a simple cream silk dress. The little dog continued digging around me, her command having had no effect whatsoever.
“Pom-Pom! Get down this instant!”
“It’s all right. I love animals,” I said.
I bent down to stroke the creature’s head, which was barely discernible under a bouquet of white hair.
“I apologize for Pom-Pom,” Mrs. Griffin said. “He’s a puppy and he’s just hopeless. I suppose it’s my fault. I’m so bad at training things.”
“He probably smells my cat,” I replied. “Do you smell my cat, you little guy?”
I stood up as Mrs. Griffin approached. We shook hands.
“My dear, your hands are so cold!” she exclaimed.
“ ‘Cold hands, warm heart,’ as the saying goes,” I said lightly.
“Sometimes one is better off the other way around,” she replied with a slight smile.
She has some humor, I thought.
“You have a cat,” she went on. “Actually, I prefer cats. They’re so much quieter. And aesthetically far more appealing, don’t you think? The way they move. That sort of sleek indifference. But, unfortunately, I’m allergic to them.”
Mrs. Griffin sat down and motioned me to follow suit.
“Come here, you horrid little dog,” she said, scooping up the fluffy white ball from the floor and placing it alongside her on the couch.
“What kind of dog is he?”
“A Pomeranian. Hence Pom-Pom. Very unoriginal, I know. People say it’s good to get a dog for company though. I’m trying it out. Your cat is called?”
“Brush.”
“Brush,” she repeated. “What a nice, neat name. Does it have a big, bushy tail?”
“No. He’s just an old alley cat, I’m afraid. I found him on the street outside my studio one day and took him in.”
“Isn’t it awful when one sees stray animals lost on the street. I think it’s even sadder than seeing stray people,” she sighed.
“I don’t know about that, but animals do seem so little and helpless. Brush was just a baby when I found him. He was crying he was so hungry.”
“Oh, please,” she said, raising her hand in protest, “I can’t bear to hear about it. The older I get, the more I can’t bear hearing about sad things. And, of course, the irony is, the older one gets, the more sad things one hears about.”
She glanced at the photograph on the table.
“My daughter loved cats.”
“Is that your daughter?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes. Cassandra. Cassa we always called her. I told you that you reminded me of her. You see, there’s quite a likeness.”
She picked up the photograph and stared at it as she spoke.
“It was taken for her coming-out party. It’s not a very good picture of her. She was actually much prettier than that, even though she never made a single effort with her looks. She loathed having her picture taken. You can see that, can’t you? She used to go on and on about the aborigines believing that photographs stole the soul of the subject. Given the state of the modern world, they may have a point.”
She put the photograph back on the table.
I didn’t know whether to let on that I was aware of Cassandra’s tragic history. I wondered if Mrs. Griffin simply took it for granted that people knew. Of course I hadn’t known about it until Harry told me, so I felt a certain awkwardness in bringing it up. One walked a fine line with people like Mrs. Griffin who were very private and very public at the same time. I didn’t want to risk offending her or having her think I was prying, nor did I wish to open an old wound. I decided the best course of action was to change the subject.
“This is a wonderful room,” I said.
Decoration was usually safe territory with the rich, but the comment seemed to take her by surprise.
“Is it?” she said with a slightly bewildered look. “I haven’t been in here in ages, and if you ask me it’s getting a bit seedy. I should have it redone.”
“Who won all the ribbons?”
“Oh, Cassa. She loved to ride. She gave it up though. God, this room smells of damp. What’s the weather like? I haven’t been outside today.”
“It’s lovely. A bit chilly. Feels like fall.”
“I should go outside,” she said, as though the idea taxed her. “But I don’t really like going outside anymore. I have to force myself. When you get older you have to force yourself to do things. Shall we have a little tour?”
She got up from the couch. Pom-Pom jumped down.
“I always think he’s going to break his neck when he does that. I shall give you away if you wee-wee anywhere,” Mrs. Griffin said, shaking her finger at the little dog.
I followed her out of the room. Pom-Pom scampered behind us, slipping like a skate on the marble floor. We walked down the hall toward a large pair of French doors. Mrs. Griffin pulled down on their long bronze knobs. They opened majestically, and she walked into the room. I followed her inside.
“The living room,” she announced, flicking several switches inside a concealed panel on the wall near the entrance.
The space lit up like a stage set. It was a charming, ethereal room, full of light and color, intimate despite the grandeur, filled with astonishing art and antiques. Three sets of French doors opened out onto a small garden sheltered by a wisteria arbor. Pale yellow silk curtains wafted back and forth in the gentle breeze. Again, the aroma of lilacs, stronger than before. The effect was transporting.
There were so many wonderful objects and paintings and pieces of furniture, I hardly knew what to look at first. Mrs. Griffin let me poke around a bit until I became entranced by a little escritoire inlaid with flowered porcelain plaques tucked away in one corner of the room.
“You like it?” she said. “It belonged to Marie Antoinette.”
“It’s just remarkable, a joy. The workmanship!”
I ran my hand over the delicate ormolu mountings and the intricate marquetry, marveling at the style and the craftsmanship.
“Yes, it’s rather charming, isn’t it? I must say one never tires of great quality. Here’s a little surprise for you—look.”
Mrs. Griffin pressed one of the porcelain plaques with her fingertip. A small drawer, heretofore concealed, sprang out from the veneer.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “How ingenious.”
“These are two of Marie Antoinette’s letters,” Mrs. Griffin said, handing me a slim packet tied with a red silk ribbon. “We found them inside when we discovered the drawer. No one knew they were there. Unfortunately, they’re not of great interest. One’s to her dressmaker, Rose Bertin. And the other’s just a scribble to a friend. Pity so much was destroyed in the Revolution.”
I held the packet gingerly in my hand, trying to picture the ill-fated queen seated at this exquisite piece of furniture, dashing off these little notes. It was odd to think of such a treasure being a part of everyday life, for Marie Antoinette, for Frances Griffin. I had become used to brushing up against history. It was a fringe benefit of working for rich people of taste. Nevertheless, the beauty of certain antiques and pictures, combined with their connection to great figures and events, never ceased to thrill me.
Handing the packet of letters back to Mrs. Griffin, I happened to notice a small, strange painting hanging directly behind her. A prosaic little still life of no particular merit, obviously modern, it seemed absurdly out of place among all the other brilliant pictures. Mrs. Griffin noticed it had captured my attention.
“Cassa painted that,” she said.
She replaced the letters in their secret drawer and shut it.
“Very nice,” I murmured without conviction.
“Well, not really, but for a ten-year-old, it’s not terrible.”
“Really?” I said, looking at it with renewed interest. “She was only ten when she painted it?”
“Ten or eleven. Holt and I were very impressed. But then, Cassa could do so many things. Too many. She took all her talent for granted, I’m afraid. It’s better when people have to struggle for what they achieve. They appreciate it more.”
I followed Mrs. Griffin out of the living room and around the rest of the house. She showed me every room. All the rooms had a theme: the Indian Room, the Chinese Room, the Chippendale Room, the Room of Glass Bells, the Blue Room, the Tapestry Room, the Rose Room, and on and on and on. Mrs. Griffin seemed to take pleasure in explaining the genesis of each one, of what had inspired her to create it—whether it had been a wonderful piece of furniture she’d found on her travels, or a painting, or just a feeling she’d had about the room itself. She described herself sitting alone in certain rooms for hours until a scheme came to her.
“I’m very sensitive to space,” she said. “I know when a space is filled correctly and when it’s not. Rooms are just like people, with their own quirks and personalities. What I can’t stand is lack of proportion in a room, or in a person, for that matter. Lack of proportion is as grating on my nerves as fingernails scraping a blackboard.”
I remembered the story of the fireplace.
By the end of the tour I was completely disoriented. The house, which appeared so ordered and classical from the outside, was actually a labyrinth of corridors and unexpected chambers. Though individually perfect, none of the rooms related to one another in any way. They were all different sizes and shapes, constructed to fit the period or motif in which they had been decorated. It was as if Mrs. Griffin, unable to make up her mind in which style she was most comfortable, had decided to try them all. A change of atmosphere was as readily available as a change of clothes.
“I wanted a house for my travels and fantasies,” Frances Griffin said, as she poured the tea that was waiting for us on a silver tray in the living room. “A room for the journeys of my life. That’s what this house is, you know, a trunk of old costumes—costume rooms. I don’t go in them very often. But I’m glad they’re there. They remind me of the past. The good past.”
She stressed the word good, as if there had been a bad past as well.
“Yes, I suppose it’s nice to keep rooms as souvenirs,” I said, quite amused at the extravagance of such a notion.
“My husband and I went everywhere together,” she continued. “I said to him years ago when we were first married that we’d have to have a place where we could collect our whole life around us. So we built this house. It’s taken a lifetime to fill it up. It’s way too big for me now. I really ought to move. But it’s difficult to move away from one’s whole life.”
“Where’s the ballroom?” I inquired.
“Oh, it’s completely separate, a little pavilion across the garden. I’ll show it to you later. We’ll finish our tea first, shall we? Tell me a little about yourself. Where did you grow up?”
“In New York City,” I replied. “I was born there.”
“And what did your father do?”
“He disappeared,” I said, laughing slightly.
Mrs. Griffin didn’t share the joke.
“Actually,” I continued more soberly, “he was a doctor, but I never really knew him. He and my mother were divorced when I was very young.”
“And your mother—did she work?”
“She taught music in a small private school,” I said.
“How difficult for her, bringing you up all by herself.”
“Yes, I think it was.”
“You’re an only child?”
“Yes.”
“Like my daughter,” she sighed. “So difficult being an only child, don’t you think?”
“It’s difficult being anything really.” I smiled.
“Were you happy?”
It was an unexpected question.
“I didn’t think about it,” I replied.
“Do you think about it now?” she said, eyeing me.
I thought for a moment. Her questions were so strange. She seemed to be searching for something.
“Actually, I think happiness becomes more of a decision as one gets older. I think at some point you just decide you’re going to be happy with what you’ve got.”
“That’s all very well,” she said. “But what about longing and regret? Where do we put them—in storage?”
She looked away at nothing in particular. We remained silent for a long moment.
“This is delicious tea.”
“Oh, do you like it? I’m so pleased,” she said, snapping out of the trance she was in. “I have it specially blended in London. Shall we go and have a look at the ballroom? It’s just across the way.”
“This house is like the Thousand and One Nights,” I said as we walked through the garden. “It keeps having more stories to tell.”
Mrs. Griffin ignored my nervous remark, maintaining the detached air of a tour guide.
“There used to be a proper arbor all along here,” she said, using her hands to point out the way. “For Cassa’s coming-out party, I put a thousand candles on the path and decorated all the trees and trellises with fresh flowers and ribbons and lanterns. I wanted it to be an enchanted wood, like youth.”
Soon I got my first glimpse of the ballroom peeking through the trees up ahead. It was a beautiful little building, nestled in the middle of an elevated clearing, very classical in feeling, square, domed, with columns in the front, and wide, shallow steps leading up to the entrance. A miniature Palladian villa. Moss was growing up the sides and it was surrounded by tangled underbrush. It hadn’t been kept up.
“This way,” Mrs. Griffin said, leading me up the steps.
She thrust open the French doors, and we went inside, where I paused for a moment to take in the scene. Standing atop the wide circular steps flowing down into the room, I saw that the entire building consisted of a single space: a round marble dance floor ringed by a low balustrade in front of a deep, elevated gallery for people to sit and dine, or walk around, observing the dancers. There was a special podium for musicians; French doors opened out onto the garden. The area was quite large, yet so skillfully proportioned it retained a sense of intimacy.
Mrs. Griffin let me wander around by myself while she stayed near the main entrance, watching. I circled the room, examining the walls, running my hand along the marble columns, the steps, and the gallery railing. No expense had been spared in either materials or craftsmanship. I decided the snowy white marble of the dance floor and that of the columns was almost certainly from Carrara. It had the unmistakable luster of that famous quarry.
“Does it speak to you?” she said after a time.
“Oh yes, it’s chattering away,” I said happily.
“Getting any ideas?”
“Hundreds. The trick is to narrow them down to one.”
“Quite right,” she agreed. “It’s so important to specify one’s vision. Don’t you find that ideas often shimmer in front of you like a mirage, but when you try to get close to them, to make them concrete, they vanish?”
“Unfortunately yes.”
“Making a theme or an idea real in human terms is the secret, isn’t it?”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, for example, we may yearn for love in the abstract until we have a lover or a child. Then our notion of love becomes defined by that person, and we can’t think of it without the embodiment in mind.”
I didn’t attempt to respond. I just listened as she went on:
“So I suppose the moral of all that is one can’t be vague—in life, or art, or even decoration. One must find the embodiment of one’s passions.”
I found myself wondering what might have happened had this remarkable woman applied her talents to something less ephemeral than style.
“Did you ever think of becoming an artist?” I said.
“No, heavens no!” she cried. “I leave art to the strong.” She paused for a moment and then said wistfully: “You remind me so much of my daughter.”
“Do I? In what way?”
“Well, it’s not so much the way you look, although, as I said, there’s a certain similarity. It’s more, well, a sort of presence you have. A kind of enthusiasm. I can’t tell you how much you remind me of her, standing there.”
“You built this just for your daughter’s coming-out party?”
“Yes. Just for that.”
“Only for that one occasion?”
“Yes . . . well, of course, we did think we’d use it again. But you know how things are. We never did,” she said sadly.
Mrs. Griffin was staring at me from across the room. Perhaps it was the physical distance between us that made me bolder. She didn’t seem so formidable, perched on those sweeping steps, and I thought to myself that now was the perfect opportunity to let her know I was aware of the tragedy. I felt I needed to bring up the subject in order to lay it to rest. So I blurted out my next sentence before I could take too much time to think about it.
“I understand your daughter died,” I said.
She stiffened slightly. “You understand correctly.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Griffin, I didn’t mean to offend . . .”
“Don’t apologize.” She raised her hand to cut me off. “Let’s discuss what we’re going to do in here, shall we? I assume you’re going to accept the commission.”
“Yes. I accept it.”
“Good,” she said firmly. “Well then, I think trompe l’oeil, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I concurred. “Trompe l’oeil seems appropriate.”