Epilogue

Madame Renee’s brothel still stands.

Although now it is the more genteelly named Pembroke College Department of Archives and Local History. That’s a bit of a mouthful, though, so everyone just calls it “the Brothel.”

True to his word, Henry fought the demolition of the building, using Madame Renee’s journal as evidence of its historical import. He and Jake drew up plans to make it structurally sound enough to support bookshelves without destroying the integrity of the architecture. Soon other historians from across the state got on board, finding evidence that Madame Renee was hiding fugitive slaves in the attic while she entertained Confederate generals in the parlor. They connected her with early advocacy in support of birth control and disease prevention as a woman’s right, in addition to being good business. They found evidence that she wore pants.

Although initially scandalized by her racy reputation, the fierce white-haired old ladies of the historical society soon embraced their rebel foremother.

The most surprising voice for the building, though, was Lou. She posited, loudly, that supporting the rehabilitation of the house in no way interfered with her vision for a new archive; it just adjusted it slightly. Once she was convinced that housing the Pembroke archives in a building that was, in and of itself, a historical document of sorts, there was no stopping her. She volunteered to lie down in front of the wrecking ball, if necessary. It never came to that. This did not stop her from offering, at least once a month.

Renovating a house according to historical standards takes a long time. Moving all of those boxes of dusty, disorganized documents took another forever. But it happened, and it opened, and there was a big, fancy reception where everybody got all dressed up and toasted Henry Beckham and his brilliant historian’s mind and keen eye.

Helen even cut her book tour short to come to the reception. She told Henry it was just an excuse to put on a fancy dress, but really, she was so proud of him that even a pack of wild Kentucky horses couldn’t keep her away. Besides, Henry had dropped everything to celebrate her book deal, then her book’s appearance on the bestseller lists, then to fly to New York to be wined and dined by her publishers while they hammered out a new, three-book deal.

Once the reception was over and the last hand was shaken and the last glass was washed and sent away with the caterers, Helen and Henry went home. George and Tammy met them at the door, whining and howling and shaking their little basset hound butts. Henry let them out while Helen went to change out of her very un-librarian heels. A few minutes later, she heard the dogs come back in, then Henry’s footsteps behind them. She turned to meet him at the door to her bedroom, and she led him inside, his hand warm in hers. She pulled on his bow tie. It came undone easily, with just a flick of her fingers. She tossed it aside and drew Henry close while the dogs settled in for a long night on the couch.