Santa Barbara, 1999
It had taken Kate many weeks to get an appointment with the expert in the restoration of old documents. The Manuscript Museum was internationally famous, and this particular gentleman, Mr. Edmund Kingston, was busy working on significant old pieces from around the world. He made it abundantly clear that he was reluctant to undertake the restoration of an insignificant and possibly irreparably damaged packet of unknown provenance.
She met with Mr. Kingston on a rainy afternoon when the humidity was very high and he was lamenting the inadequacies of the air-conditioning system in his office at the Manuscript Museum. He was a very heavy man, his face puffy and pale, but his eyes were dark and perceptive as they peered out from bushy white eyebrows. For some unknown reason, Kate tried to be on her best behavior and had dressed in a ladylike green suit with a lace-trimmed blouse.
Mr. Kingston slowly spread the yellowed fragments on a board before him using a pair of tweezers. He shook his head. “Too many hands, too much moisture, too many years …,” he began in a slow, rumbling voice. “People have no sense of preservation, no sense of reverence. You came by these how?”
“My aunt found them in an attic,” explained Kate, wondering why she felt so terribly nervous. “They were wrapped in some old oiled paper and also contained this—” She produced the yellowed fragment of lace, and he regarded it for a long moment.
“From … Bruges, I should say … perhaps seventeenth century. It was a cheap type, made in vast quantities for export. Better samples exist—”
Kate folded the lace back into the acid-free paper where she kept it, handling it with particular reverence and a protective instinct. A slight smile crossed Mr. Kingston’s face, but disappeared quickly. “You have an appreciation for it,” he stated.
She shrugged. “I have little of the past. For some reason, I seem to have become the family historian.”
He replaced his glasses and began to scan the paper once more. “That chore usually falls to somebody, sooner or later. Usually later, alas, when all of those who could have told the tales and identified the photographs are dead. A pity.”
They were silent for several minutes. Kate felt as if a judge were about to hand down a ruling on one of her major cases.
Finally, he removed his glasses and turned to her. “Well, young lady, I regret to inform you that these sheets are badly deteriorated. The paper was cheap, and the type of ink on it unknown. Some few traces of the ink may remain—”
“Is it possible to treat them to get at least something of the words?” she asked eagerly.
“It might be tried—there are some chemical washes … time-consuming and fairly expensive. Can you tell me why you want to invest in this? Is there something here of value to you?” His gaze was direct and suspicious.
Kate thought for a moment and then took a deep breath. “I don’t know what is there. But whatever it is, whatever it says, it is something from my family’s past. They’re only here now in me—and in those faded words. I just want to know what they say.”
Mr. Kingston shrugged. “As good a reason as most I hear. Very well, I’ll see what can be done. I promise nothing, mind you. I don’t believe that we can get more than a few words from this, but we can possibly prevent further deterioration if we encapsulate …” He replaced his glasses and gazed again at the documents. “Hmmm. We’ll try.”