Chapter Thirteen
Melody glanced at the pictures hanging in the long hallway of the Sinclair family home, hardly knowing where to look first, as there were so many works of art crammed into this .
. . this mansion. It could easily rival the finest art museums in the country, if not the world.
And this, Eustace had explained, was only one of their homes.
There was the villa in Switzerland, a house in Newport, and a “cottage” at Lake Louise, though Melody suspected it was probably a far cry from the old mining cottages in Merriweather or the fishing cottage her family had rented one summer in Door County.
At first, she had been inclined to study each portrait and landscape, but eventually she had given this up in an effort to keep up with Eustace, his somewhat quick pace through the house at odds with his bored (but only slightly) tone.
They had thus far explored almost every room on both floors of this gargantuan home, which seemed impossibly bigger than it appeared from the outside, a perfect example of a Beaux Arts construction sitting prettily on Astor Street.
Melody blindly followed Eustace up staircases and down hallways and through a series of gorgeous rooms with painted ceilings, gleaming old wood, and golden chandeliers.
She had early on lost all sense of direction and nearly all sense of decorum, so in awe that she had to repeatedly remind herself not to exclaim every other minute or walk with her mouth open.
They were currently on the second floor, walking toward what Eustace called the best room of the house—the statuary.
The statuary? Melody wasn’t exactly sure what a “statuary” was, but she hesitated to ask, as she was sure it would only cause Eustace to amusedly roll his eyes at her ignorance.
They were fastly falling into the role of professor and student, which Melody did not so much mind, as she was learning much.
More than she was in any of her classes.
The statuary, Eustace had explained, was the heart of the house.
They continued down the red damask-papered hallway, Melody’s excitement growing, until they reached a set of paneled pocket doors. Eustace paused dramatically and then pushed them open with a flourish.
Tentatively, Melody stepped inside and was initially a little bit surprised that “the heart” was so starkly white and cold.
The vaulted room was filled with sculptures of every size and type, the larger ones on daises, but most on pedestals.
There was nothing else in the room, not even a single chair.
Melody looked to Eustace for direction, but he merely smiled, resting a long, elegant finger against his cheek.
He wanted to capture her reaction, as if he were the parent watching a child who had just come down on Christmas morning to find her gifts.
He tilted his head, indicating that she should enter further.
Tentatively, Melody began to peruse the room, her steps echoing on the marble floor.
Melody went from sculpture to sculpture, attempting to observe each one intently, as she was sure she was supposed to do, but they failed to impress her in the way a nice landscape might.
Indeed, she felt almost as though she were walking through a graveyard of marble- and bronze-encased bodies portraying the last of their human emotions. Fear, rapture, love, despair.
One, however, did particularly strike her.
She paused in front of the life-size piece at the room’s center.
It was of a woman, either asleep or possibly dead, being partially lifted and kissed by an angel, his arm protectively covering her breast. It was incredibly beautiful, and Melody wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Ah,” Eustace murmured, his voice rich with pleasure. “You’ve uncovered the prize of the whole room.”
Since it was the largest statue and also at the very center, Melody did not think that “uncovered” was quite the right word, nor was her action worthy of praise, but she did not say anything.
“Do you like it?” Eustace asked with a rare eagerness. “It is a copy, of course, but a very good one.”
Melody continued to stare at the sculpture, entranced by the emotion it conveyed, and felt a corresponding stirring in her heart.
To be kissed in such a way. “What is it called?” she asked softly, turning to Eustace now, suddenly feeling the urge to transfer the emotion welling up within her from cold hard marble to flesh and blood.
Eustace, however, did not seem to notice the longing in her eyes.
“It is Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss, ma petite muse.
” He stepped closer to the statue. “It really is exquisite the way he was able to capture that moment of awakening, both literally and metaphorically. It’s the epitome of grace, do you not think? ”
“It’s very . . .” Melody faltered, the moment gone, “lifelike.”
“Indeed. A perfect example of neoclassism, quite different from Thorvaldsen, however. Here,” he said, walking briskly toward a bronze statue atop a pedestal, “you can see for yourself. This is his Jason with the Golden Fleece. Still of the neoclassical school, but so much more masculine.”
Melody peered at the statue of a naked soldier, a spear balanced confidently on his shoulder, a ram’s fleece draped over one arm.
Feeling her cheeks grow warm, she averted her eyes from the sculpture’s midsection.
Eustace’s attention remained on the sculpture.
She looked back at it as well, and an image of Cal with his cocky self-assuredness suddenly came into her mind. Quickly, she banished it.
Eustace pointed to Jason’s face. “See here—the strong set of the jaw, the angular pose—classical heroism. Jason has been imbued with a sense of potential energy and demands attention, while Psyche”—he pointed to the centerpiece—“is a study in gentle curves and delicate balance. It invites contemplation, reflection.”
Melody’s eyes traveled from one sculpture to the other and back again. He was right.
“Canova,” Eustace explained, “emphasizes ideal beauty and emotion, while Thorvaldsen focuses on heroic virtue and action. It is not unlike comparing a sonnet to an epic poem. Both are perfect in their own way.”
Not for the first time, Melody marveled at the breadth of Eustace’s knowledge. He seemed able to discuss, at length, any artistic subject, connecting symbolism and themes in a way she never dreamt existed.
Eustace gestured limply at a cluster of other statuary.
“The rest of these are mostly Etruscan,” he said with a note of disdain.
“Though they are original, which is saying something. Father has a weakness for the Etruscans.” He pulled out a perfectly ironed monogrammed handkerchief and delicately dabbed his nose.
“Thankfully, Uncle does not, and most of the other sculpture in the house are his.” He neatly tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket.
“Where is your uncle?” Melody asked. Having walked through what Melody was sure must be the whole of the house, they had yet to meet a single person beyond the servants, who tended to scurry away whenever they happened to come upon one—save the footmen, of course, who stood at attention at various points along the route.
“My uncle?” Eustace asked, as if perplexed. “He’s upstairs, of course, in his apartment.”
“His apartment?”
“Well, it’s not really an apartment, it’s the third floor. He has it all to himself. Would you like to meet him?”
Melody blinked. There was a third floor? “Well, isn’t that why I’m here? To meet him?”
Eustace chuckled. “You are quite right, my dear. I had almost forgotten. Yes, let us proceed.” He pulled out a gold pocket watch. “Yes, he’ll be expecting us right about now. Come, we can return to this room later, if you wish.”
Melody followed Eustace out of the statuary and down a short side hallway until he stopped in front of a small door which was cut into the wall. “This is the servant’s staircase, but it’s much closer than the main. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not.” Melody followed him up the narrow circular stairs. “What’s he like?” she asked as they climbed.
“Uncle Alistair?” Eustace glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, très amusant. He’s—what would you call it?—a bit eccentric.”
“What does he teach, again?” Melody asked, trying to remember if Eustace had ever mentioned it.
“Antiquities.”
Definitely not.
“Nordic archeology is his specialty.” When they reached the top of the spiral staircase, Eustace turned to her fully. “He’s spent years traveling the world, researching and picking up treasures. At the moment, however, he’s writing a book.”
“Oh, but won’t we be disturbing him?”
“Not at all. He’s quite eager to meet you.”
So, he’s told him about me! As he rapped lightly, Melody patted her hair, hoping she was still presentable.
“Come in!” called a surprisingly high-pitched but genial voice.
Eustace pushed open the little door and ducked into the room. Melody bent as well and followed him. She looked around curiously, surprised by what she saw.
With its dark-paneled wood and floor-to-ceiling bookcases, this room was the exact opposite of the stark statuary below.
A roaring fire in the hearth gave the room a warm, pleasant glow, and in the very center was a broad mahogany desk, upon which were piled stacks and stacks of papers, open books, and several maps.
In front of the desk, on a large rug that looked to be of an American Indian pattern, sat a rattan sofa and two chairs arranged neatly around a tea table.
A multitude of lit candles gave the illusion that they had somehow stepped back in time.
“Uncle Alistair, allow me to introduce Miss Melody Merriweather. Miss Merriweather, my uncle, Alistair Fitzwilliam Sinclair,” Eustace announced, leading Melody toward the desk behind which sat a rather plump man dressed in a very wrinkled, very outdated brown suit.