Chapter Thirteen #2
The old man stood and peered at Melody over his wire-rimmed gold spectacles. His balding head was encircled by a wispy ring of gray hair, but his eyes were extremely bright, almost merry, and though he was obviously old, he exuded an air of youth.
“My dear!” he boomed, coming from behind the desk and taking her hand. “How enchanting to meet you.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Eustace has told me all about you.” He continued to peer at her above his spectacles. “And now I can see why he is so very enamored.”
Melody blushed and glanced at Eustace, who did not return the look; in fact, his expression was impassive.
“Do sit down, my dear.” Uncle Alistair gestured toward the sofa. “You will join me for tea, I hope?”
“Well, if we’re not intruding,” Melody said tentatively as she took a seat. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.” Her eyes darted toward the stacks of papers.
“Oh, that? That can wait. It’s not often I am treated to such lovely company.
Now,” he said, perching himself in one of the armchairs, “you must tell me all about yourself. You are a Merriweather, did you say?” He looked up at the ceiling and drummed his fingers against his cheek.
“I knew a Merriweather, I seem to remember.” He turned his gaze back to Melody.
“Any relation to Mordecai Merriweather? He is a physician in Albany.”
“I’m not sure.” Melody shifted uneasily. “I don’t think so, though.”
“No matter, no matter.”
A butler entered carrying a rather large silver tea tray.
“Ah, Manfred,” said Uncle Alistair, pulling out his pocket watch, noting it, and then snapping it shut. “Perfectly punctual.”
The butler carefully set the tray on the table. It was laden with a teapot, three cups and saucers, and a rather large three-tiered stand with a variety of tiny sandwiches and pastries. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, that will be all.” Uncle Alistair inspected the tray with delight, and, approving, dismissed the servant. “I’ll ring if I need you.”
“Very good, sir.” Manfred gave a slight bow and promptly exited.
“You be mother, Eustace,” Uncle Alistair instructed his nephew, who had delicately taken a seat next to Melody.
Eustace obediently began arranging the cups and lifted the cozy from the pot.
“Melody is a student at Mundelein College, Uncle,” he said as he poured.
“Indeed?” Uncle Alistair pushed his gold spectacles back with one finger and then took the cup offered by Eustace. “And what do they teach you there, my dear?”
Melody shifted, embarrassed to report that she was taking swimming and horseback riding. “Geography. Mostly,” she fumbled, suddenly aware of how absurd this sounded. She didn’t dare mention the shorthand.
Uncle Alistair tilted his head slightly, as if trying to understand. “Just geography? A bit unusual, is it not?”
“Melody has an abbreviated schedule at the moment, Uncle,” Eustace explained.
“She has recently returned from a sabbatical, if you will, at home where she was engaged in helping her family for a time. Her father recently passed, so she has been in mourning and is only gradually easing back into her studies.” Eustace added several cubes of sugar to his cup.
“Ah. I’m very sorry for your loss, my dear. Very sorry. Was he a scholar, by chance? Your father, that is?”
“Um, no. He ran the town mercantile.”
Uncle Alistair pursed his lips. “A man of business, then.”
“Well, yes . . . you could say that.” Melody wasn’t sure she would have classified her father as a businessman, but she supposed it was true enough.
“During her exile in the wilds of Wisconsin,” Eustace elaborated playfully, “Melody became quite an accomplished brewer and purveyor of cider, Uncle.”
“Cider, did you say? Then you join a long line of women in history who were brewers. Long before the monks, you know. Or the nuns, for that matter. We need only to look at the Beguines. It’s all there in the book.” He tilted his head toward the desk.
“Yes, Eustace told me you were writing a book,” Melody added, glad for a chance to guide the conversation away from herself. “What is it about?”
Uncle Alistair’s bright eyes became even brighter. He vigorously stirred his tea. “Have you ever heard of Thule, my dear?”
Melody shook her head and took a sip of her tea. “I don’t believe so.”
“Ah. Well, allow me to explain.” He cleared his throat.
“Thule is a mystical land,” he began in a mysterious, storytelling sort of voice, “a legendary land that many say doesn’t exist. It is similar in this to the myth of Atlantis, though Thule is indeed real.
Many have spent a lifetime searching for it.
It is the birthplace of the Thulians, the ancient Aryans, who are said to possess great power and supernatural abilities. ”
“Oh!” Melody was not sure what to make of this. She wanted to glance at Eustace for some sort of confirmation, but she dared not.
“The Germans are most interested of late. Rudolf von Sebottendorff has written rather extensively about it, as has Heinrich Himmler. In fact, it is rumored Himmler is sending an expedition to the North Pole this summer to look for traces. I may join them if I’m able.”
“How . . . how interesting,” Melody murmured and took another sip of her tea.
“Yes, yes, isn’t it?” Uncle Alistair bit into a tiny prosciutto and butter sandwich. He stood and retreated to a large pedestaled globe. It looked very ancient. He spun it slowly and then tapped the North Pole. “It is said that they retreated here into the center of the Earth.”
Melody did glance at Eustace now, who raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Come, come, Uncle, let’s not get into all of that now.”
“But why ever not, my boy? Miss Merriweather did ask.” He seemed slightly offended.
“Yes, but you mustn’t neglect to tell her about your first book.”
“You have another book?” Melody asked politely, taking her cue.
“Indeed yes, my dear.” He came back to his armchair. “Unobserved Symmetry: Diagonal Compositions in Minor Flemish Masters 1440–1460.”
“It is a most enlightening work,” Eustace added.
“Thank you, my boy.” Uncle Alistair picked up another tiny sandwich, this one cucumber, and spent the next twenty or so minutes reviewing the work’s main points, though to Melody it felt like hours.
She did not understand most of what the old professor was talking about and was, in truth, fighting to stay awake.
Finally, when there was a break in the exposition due to Uncle Alistair needing to breathe, Eustace spoke.
“Well, Uncle, we must get on.” Eustace stood.
“Leaving already?” Uncle Alistair seemed surprised. “But you’ve barely touched the sandwiches. And I haven’t even gotten to the second half of the book!”
“Well, you don’t want to give it away, do you? We must leave Miss Merriweather in some suspense.”
“Ah,” Uncle Alistair mused. “I suppose you have a point. Would you like a copy, Miss Merriweather?”
There was nothing she wanted less. “If you . . . if you have a copy to spare,” she managed to murmur.
“But of course, but of course!” Uncle Alistair said enthusiastically. He hurried over to one of the bookcases and slid open the glass door. After removing a thick volume, he returned, placing it in her hands. “There you are.”
“Thank you, Professor Sinclair, I—”
“Oh, but you must call me Uncle Alistair!”
“Uncle Alistair, then. Thank you. I’ll return it soon.”
“Return it? No, it is a gift, my dear.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” She smiled weakly.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” he asked eagerly. “I’m sure Manfred can arrange something with Cook.”
“No, Uncle,” Eustace said quickly. “We’re dining at the Berghoff tonight.”
“The Berghoff, eh? I haven’t been there in years. The last time, I believe, was, well, it must have been before the war.”
“You’re welcome to join us of course, Uncle,” Eustace said, though even Melody could tell it was an insincere offer.
“No, no.” Uncle Alistair sighed. “Not today. You go on and enjoy yourselves. Miss Merriweather, it was a delight to meet you.” He raised her hand to his lips again.
“And you as well, Professor . . . Uncle Alistair.”
The older man then shot Eustace a quick wink. “You’ve chosen well, my boy. When will you make Miss Merriweather one of us?”
If Melody wasn’t mistaken, Eustace’s cheeks were now flushed. She had never once seen him ruffled, much less . . . was he embarrassed ? He did not return her look.
“And have you taken Miss Merriweather to see the new gallery?” Uncle Alistair asked, as if this was the most natural follow-up question in the world. “The one on Michigan. Quite good, you know. Quite good.”
“I haven’t, Uncle, but I shall,” Eustace answered vaguely, causing Melody to wonder which of his uncle’s questions he was answering—the former, the latter, or both? “Goodbye, then,” Eustace said with unusual curtness and gestured Melody toward the door.
As she followed him down the main staircase, Melody was acutely aware of the awkward silence between them now. She wondered if he might be somehow angry and was surprised when he paused abruptly on the first landing.
“I do apologize. He’s a bit batty, but he means well. You might not guess it, but he really is the most intelligent man I’ve ever met. He’s actually quite brilliant. You musn’t mind what he says.” He absently drummed his fingers on a small section of the banister.
Melody wondered what part of the conversation he was referring to—Uncle Alistair’s outlandish tales or his comment about making her a Sinclair? She decided to play it safe. “About the people living in the center of the Earth?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Eustace’s worried face relaxed.
“That and other things . . .” His voice trailed off.
They stared at each other, and Melody’s heart began to beat a little faster.
They were standing so very close. She remained silent, waiting for him to .
. . well, to perhaps kiss her, but he did not.
He backed down a few steps.
“Are we really dining at the Berghoff, or did you just say that to get away?” she asked with a bit of a pout. Would he ever kiss her?
“Yes, we really are dining at the Berghoff.” He smiled tentatively. “If you wish it, that is.”
“I do wish it. I’m famished!”
Eustace laughed. Really laughed. The first time that she had ever heard him do so. He seemed lighter now. “Do you always say what you feel and think?”
Melody considered. “Usually, yes. Don’t you?”
“Oh, dear one,” he said, suddenly taking her hand and kissing it, “what a breath of fresh air you are in this dusty old mausoleum. You are like the last of the pink summer roses. You are simply waiting to be plucked, and I tremble before you at the prospect. Come, let us go.”
Melody was a ball of confusion as they descended the remainder of the stairs, her arm linked in his.
It seemed obvious that a proposal was on the horizon, and yet he had not yet told her that he loved her.
A pink rose, he had called her. First love, innocence.
Everything pointed to him being in love with her, but she wasn’t sure.
And, more importantly, she had yet to decide if she was in love with him.