The Forgotten Room(32)

She belonged here. That was all.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know much about you at all.”

“Well, you’re going to. You’re going to know everything about me, and I hope you’ll tell me everything about you. Not that I need to know it. I already know who you are.”

“What?”

“I mean the essence of you. Come here. I’ve set up a little background for you, a little more comfortable than last week. And I built the fire up, so you won’t be cold.”

Olive wanted to ask why she would be cold, since she was wearing her thick flannel nightgown topped by an even thicker dressing gown, but perhaps she didn’t want to know the answer to that, either. She walked obediently in the direction of Harry’s gesturing hand, where a pile of cushions lay on the floor, flanked by a pair of potted palms. “Of course they won’t be palms in the actual painting,” Harry said. “It’s just for perspective.”

“Of course.” Olive lowered herself carefully onto the cushions, which were upholstered in silk and threadbare velvet and released a comfortable scent of dusty lavender as she sank among them.

“They’re from my aunt’s old house in Washington Square, I think. I salvaged them myself when Uncle Peter died and she moved uptown. There was something old and decadent about them; I couldn’t resist.”

“I thought everything about this house was decadent already.”

“Not in the same way. It’s all gilding and no gold. That’s it. You can recline a little. On your elbow, yes, like that. Look as if you’re settling down to daydream. Beautiful.” He circled around behind her and put his hands to her head, unpicking her braid. “Do you mind removing that dressing gown?”

“Yes, I do!”

Harry stepped around the cushions and bent on his knee in front of her, bracing his elbow against his thigh, almost as if he were playing football. “Olive, will you do me a very great favor? Stop thinking about the stupid people downstairs, all the stupid people in the world outside this door. They don’t exist. There’s only one opinion that matters anymore, and that’s yours. Your opinion, Olive. That’s all I care about, and that’s all you should care about. What do you think will happen if you take off this robe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think I’ll turn into a slavering beast and ravish you on the spot?”

She laughed. He was smiling and genial and serious all at once, and the lamplight hit his head like a halo. “No.”

“So you trust me?”

She studied him a little longer, and he didn’t waver. How could he be a danger to her, when his blue eyes reflected hers so steadily?

She reached for the belt of her dressing gown. “Yes.”

Harry said nothing as she slipped the thick brocade over her shoulders and freed it from around her legs. He took the robe from her hands and folded it carefully, leaving it atop the fraying rush seat of the chair in the corner.

“Now come here,” he said, holding out his hand.

She put her fingers in his palm, and he drew her upward. Her cheeks were warm, but she held otherwise steady, though her limbs felt naked under the white flannel of her nightgown. Because they are naked, you fool, she reminded herself, but not even that thought disturbed her tranquility. The flutter in her belly was only a benign and eager anticipation. She had made her decision, hadn’t she? She had crossed the Rubicon. Now she had only to see what lay on the other side.

Harry led her to the wall next to the small fireplace, where a pile of angry coals hissed heat into the room, and pointed to the three square tiles above the mantel. Olive hadn’t noticed them before, and now she wondered why: They were beautiful, full of color, depicting intricate heraldic shields on either side and a central figure of Saint George bearing his crimson white-crossed flag.

Harry’s hand moved downward. “See this section of brick here? It’s loose.”

He released her hand and worked the bricks free from the mortar in a single irregular shingle, revealing the cavity within. “You see? There’s a hollow here, as if the builder forgot to put in a few bricks. Well, he didn’t forget. I got to know the architect a little bit, when they were building this place, and he showed me. I guess he liked to do that when he designed houses, to put in some little secret. So, if you need anything, if you want to leave me a message of any kind, just put it in here. I’ll find it, I promise.”

Olive stared at the hole, unable to speak. Unable, almost, to breathe. I got to know the architect a little bit. Oh, Papa. Papa, my God. Papa knew Harry. Papa made a little secret and shared it with Harry. Shared it—maybe—with her, with Olive, from wherever his soul now existed? To tell her—what? To perhaps say: Harry is a fine man, a man who can keep a secret, a man you can trust, Olive.

A sign. This is the way, Olive.

If she looked hard enough inside this small cavity in a brick wall, would she see her father inside?

At last, a whisper: “Yes.”

“And I’ll do the same. I’m sure you can find an excuse to sneak up here during the day, can’t you? Just check behind the bricks, and I’ll be there.”

“Right under Saint George,” said Olive. The fire warmed the flannel of her dress, or maybe it was Harry, robust and full of life, inches away.