Hawke

“Yes. But he had his reasons, as you’ll soon see.”

“And you’ve obviously concluded I’m in this so-called proper state now?”

“Indeed, I have, m’lord,” Pelham said, a smile passing across his face. “It’s been a fairly rough go for you. Especially since your dear grandfather passed on. We all miss him. But I think he would agree that you have traveled long and lonely through a deep dark wood and have just now emerged into a most su

“If you mean by all that, that after a bit of hard sledding I have come to feel as happy as any man has a right to be, then you’re correct. I have. Wouldn’t you agree, Victoria?”

She was about to say “Happy as a clam,” thought better of it, and said, “Never happier.”

“See? And, as you well know, Victoria is something of a psychiatrist. So, assuming the matter of my current blissful state is settled, hand over the goods, young Pelham! Let’s take a look!” He held out his hand.

Pelham extended the box, and Hawke took it.

“Like a mystery novel,” Hawke said, ru

He placed the strange white box upon the mantelpiece, beneath the mammoth painting of the Battle of Trafalgar. Looking at the box from different angles, Hawke continued his pacing. “Only usually a good mystery writer will stick these intriguing objects right up front to hook the reader.”

“For heaven’s sakes, open it, Alex,” Vicky said. “I can’t wait to see!”

“So, in other words,” Hawke said, looking carefully at Pelham, “Grandfather wanted me to have this box when I had come to grips with—what shall we call it—the past?”

“Precisely, m’lord,” Pelham said, eyes shining.

“Well, then, in that case I think this historic event deserves a toast! Pelham, would you pour us each a wee dram of that fine brandy?”

Hawke received his brandy and stood, glass in one hand, the other up on the mantelpiece. He swirled the amber liquid in the snifter and then lifted it in the direction of Vicky and Pelham.

“A toast,” Alex Hawke said, “if you don’t mind.”

When they, too, raised their glasses, he said, “I would like to drink to the memory of my dear mother and father,” Hawke began, his eyes brimming.

Vicky thought his voice would break, but he continued. “These are memories that have only recently come back to me. But as they do come flooding back, they are filled with a joy and happiness I never knew existed. My father was a splendid fellow, handsome and brave beyond measure.”

“Oh, Alex!” Vicky cried, and there were tears in her eyes.

“My mother—my mother was equally endowed with strength, kindness, and beauty. And she possessed all three in abundance. In the seven short years we had together, she managed to instill in the boy whatever few qualities or virtues the man might have.”

A sob escaped Vicky’s trembling lips.

Alex put the glass to his lips and drank deeply.

“To my mother and father,” Alex said, and flung his empty glass into the fire, shattering it against the blackened bricks.

“Hear! Hear!” Pelham shouted, rising to his feet. He raised his glass to Hawke, eyes glistening, downed the brandy in one swallow, then threw his glass into the fireplace. Seconds later, Vicky’s glass followed his into the fire as well.

“And now at last the mysterious box!” Hawke said, drawing the back of his hand across his eyes. “Let’s see what’s inside it, shall we?”

He took the box from the mantel, looked at it for a long moment, and then slowly lifted the lid.

“Why, it’s a key!” he said, and lifted out a large brass key by the black satin ribbon attached to it. “Where there’s a key, there’s a lock.”

“Yes,” Pelham said. “There is. If you’ll both follow me?”

Vicky and Alex followed him out into the great hall and then began ascending the broad curving staircase, a spiral that formed the center of the entire house. There was a skylight at the very top of the great mansion and flashes of lightning pierced down into the gloom. Pelham, a Scot, never lit any more lights in the house than were absolutely necessary.

“Where are we going, old thing?” Hawke asked, as they passed the fourth-floor landing and continued upwards.

“To my rooms, your lordship,” Pelham said simply.

“Your rooms? What on earth is—”

A violent crack of lightning struck just then, quite nearby, and Vicky cried out, grabbed Alex’s arm, and held on. The few staircase lights that were lit flickered twice and then went out. The whole house was plunged into darkness.

“Not to worry, miss,” Pelham said. “I always carry a small electric torch on my person for just such occasions.”

He flicked the flashlight on and they continued their procession, mounting to the sixth floor of the house.

“Just along here,” Pelham said, “at the end of the hall.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been to your rooms, Pelham,” Hawke said.

“Ah, but you have done, m’lord,” he said, opening the door to his quarters. “Many’s the time we’d return from an evening out on the tiles and you’d insist on having ‘one and done’ by my fireside before bed. I’d throw a blanket over you on the sofa and try to ignore the horrific snoring.”

“Try the lights,” Vicky said. “They just came back on down the hall.”

Pelham flicked a switch, and two sconces on either side of his small coal-burning hearth came on. It was a simple room, yet rich with books and paintings.

“Let me guess,” Hawke said, dangling the key from its ribbon. “There’s an ancient chest up here, full of priceless gold and silver heirlooms.”

Pelham, meanwhile, had opened a farther door and motioned them to enter.

“What’s this?” Hawke said.

“My clothes closet, your lordship.”

“Your closet?”

“Indeed, sir. At the very rear, you shall find another door, hidden behind all my old jackets and frocks. It’s been locked for thirty years. The key will open it.”

“I’d no idea you were such a clothes-hound,” Hawke said from inside the closet. “All these linen blazers and—what? Here it is! A hidden door!”

Alex turned the key and pushed the door open. A cold musty wind brushed his cheeks as he and Vicky entered the dark room, brushing cobwebs aside.

“Oh, my God,” Alex said.

Casting the beam of the flashlight about the room, Alex saw that it was filled to the rafters with all the furnishings, toys, and objects of the first seven years of his life.

Atop a dusty leather chest, he spied a red rubber ball.

“I used to toss this ball into the sea,” he told Vicky in hushed tones. “My dog Scoundrel would plunge in and fetch it. And look here!

“This was my pram, isn’t it wonderful? Father designed it to look like a fishing dory on wheels. And here, the picture that hung above my bed. And all my armies of soldiers, and—”

“Alex, come here,” Vicky said.

“What is it?”

“A painting,” she said. “One of the loveliest paintings I’ve ever seen.”

Later that evening, with Pelham’s help, Alex managed to take down The Battle of Trafalgar, which had hung for a century or so above the fireplace. Then, mounting the tall stepladder once more, he hung the painting Vicky had uncovered in Pelham’s hidden room.

“Is it straight?” Alex asked from atop the ladder.

“Perfectly straight, darling,” Vicky said. “Come down and see!”

Alex returned to the sofa without looking back and sat beside Vicky. Then he raised his eyes to the painting.

His father and mother soon after their wedding day.

Mother was seated, wearing the beautiful white lace dress she’d made famous in The White Rose. Father stood at her side in his splendid uniform, his hand on her bare shoulder. A scarlet sash across his chest bore all of his many decorations, and he wore Marshal Ney’s famous sword at his waist.

He and Vicky sat silently, side by side, staring up at the faces of the happy couple. Alex put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.