“WOULD YOU CARE FOR some more damson-plum jam, Mr. Cassaway?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Plaice. If the holidays weren’t so close behind us, I’d think you were fattening me up as a Christmas turkey.”
“What sauce!” Mrs. Plaice tittered as she picked up the tea-things and made her way out of the parlor and into the kitchen.
Humblecut watched her disappear. Mrs. Plaice was, indeed, a most excellent cook, but he was strict about his diet.
Mount Desert Island—where his slow, methodical inquiries had ultimately led him—was a curious place indeed. It was quite large—dwarfing Martha’s Vineyard far to the south. And it had recently undergone a transformation. For years, the island had been the haunt of “rusticators”—artists of the Hudson River school searching for remote, rugged landscapes to put on canvas. But over the last decade, these would-be Thoreauvians had been displaced by the wealthiest of the wealthy, eager to build large summer “cottages” far from the city. Various Carnegies, Astors, and Rockefellers arrived on the island by yacht and steamship for summers full of lawn parties, yachting, and croquet. This was good news for provisioners, carpenters, masons, and house staff... but bad news for the cheap boardinghouses patronized by the artists and naturalists. How lucky then for Scots-bred Emmaline Plaice, who ran just such a modest establishment, that Mr. Cassaway—middle-aged, handsome, lean and sinewy, with impeccable manners—had arrived, looking for a place precisely like hers, where he could research his history of the postrevolutionary New England coast. Better still, he seemed to find the tranquility of the winter season inspirational and appreciated being her only boarder. In fact, once he’d chosen her best room—overlooking the main street of Northeast Harbor—and secured it by paying a month in advance, she’d taken the small rooms to let sign out of the front window.
In his brief stay on the island, Humblecut had already taken long walks along its rocky coastline and meandering carriage rides through the sleepy winter towns, braving the godawful freezing temperatures, to ensure he became a familiar figure to the locals. He was also spending time at the library and chatting with self-professed island historians in the local coffee shop, displaying his bona fides, along with establishing that he was there for private research and minded his own business. This last quality masked the fact he was skilled at coaxing rumors and gossip out of others without their realizing it. That morning, he’d learned from a lobsterman that a man had taken up residence in the Rockefeller estate as a security guard, bringing his young son with him. Another encounter with a housepainter informed him that a boy of twelve years old had begun attending the Seal Harbor school—noteworthy because the painter’s son had teased the boy on account of his peculiar accent, to unfortunate results.
“I think I’ll go out for a stroll, Mrs. P.,” he told the landlady as she bustled back in. “Work up an appetite for supper.”
“What—after tea?” She frowned in concern. “It gets dark so early, these days.”
“I won’t go far—just up the Foster Farm Road.”
“Will you, and all? There’s nothing to see out that way but them dirty great mansions. Not much history thereabouts—some of them are but half-built.”
“What we find contemporary, future generations will call history.”
The woman frowned as if trying to parse this statement. “Future generations aren’t about to walk out that door and catch their death of cold.”
He smiled. “Have you, by chance, ever heard of historiography?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Mrs. Plaice opened the closet door. “Here, take my late husband’s scarf. White cashmere—it’s ever so soft.”
“I’d prefer that other one, if you don’t mind.”
“What … the black? But that’s a lady’s scarf … that’s mine!”
“In that case, I shall be sure to tuck it especially close to my heart.”
“Such a saucebox!” She tittered—then paused. “What was that word again?”
“Historiography. The study of how written history changes with time. I suppose you could call it the history of history. In any case, someday my history book will be studied in such a way … if I’m lucky.”
“The history of history. I never. It’s like … like walking backward on a moving train. What’s the point?”
“That’s a question even historians can’t answer.”
At this, she burst into laughter. “You always give me something to think about, you do! Now remember: supper’s at half past six. We’re having roast hogget.”
“In that case, I’ll come back with an extra-sharp appetite.” Wrapping the scarf tightly around his neck and tucking it into his coat, he opened the front door and—black upon black—strode out into the failing light.