Alex Hawke laughed softly, and brushed back a wing of auburn hair, bronzed by the firelight, from her pale forehead. Her eyes were closed, and her long dark lashes lay upon her cheeks, fluttering only when either of them spoke.
“Amazing chap, your father,” Hawke whispered. “Everything he says seems to have quotation marks at either end.”
“A lot of them are unprintable,” Vicky said, yawning deeply, and pressing closer. “He has a few enormously politically incorrect opinions and he’s an ornery old cuss when you cross him.”
“What did he have to say when you rang him up this afternoon?”
“Not much. Sounded very shaky. It’s going to take him a while to get over all those roller-coaster emotions. I promised I’d come right away to look after him. I’m so sorry. I know you were counting on me to—”
“Shh. I understand. You sound tired, Doc.”
“I am, a little. We must have walked the width and breadth of every park in London. It was lovely. My dream of a foggy day in London Town.”
“We missed one. Regent’s Park,” Alex said, stroking her hair. “I wanted to show you Queen Mary’s rose garden. Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know. You started it. When one person starts, the other just does it automatically. Funny. Do you want some more tea?”
“What I’d love is a small brandy. Curious. I haven’t seen Pelham lurking about in the last hour or two.”
“I saw him sitting in the pantry just after dinner. Sniper was perched on his shoulder, chattering away, while Pelham was doing needlepoint. Very fancy if you ask me, Lord Fauntleroy. What is it?”
“I’m embarrassed to tell you. It’s to be a birthday present. For me, in fact. A waistcoat with the family crest. I’ve tried to convince him to quit before he goes blind, but he feigns deafness whenever I do.”
At that very moment, there was the creak of an ancient door, and the omniscient Pelham Grenville entered the room bearing a large silver tray, which he placed upon the ottoman before the fire.
“Begging your pardon, m’lord. That last flash and clap made me think a splash of brandy might be welcomed.”
“The man is a mind reader, I tell you,” Hawke said, reaching for the heavy crystal decanter. “Thank you kindly, young Pelham.”
Hawke noticed that, in addition to the decanter and small thistle-shaped crystal glasses, there was a most peculiar box on the tray. It was triangular and made of yellowed ivory, with a hawk carved of onyx embedded in the center of the lid.
“I’ve never seen that box before, Pelham,” Alex said. “Quite beautiful.”
“Yes,” Pelham said. “It was a gift to your great-grandfather from David Lloyd-George himself. Something to do with a political triad long lost to the mists of history.”
“Too small for cigars,” Alex observed.
“Indeed,” Pelham said. “Do you mind if I sit a moment?”
“You may sit as long as you wish, of course. Here, let me pour you a brandy,” Alex said, and he did so.
Pelham pulled up a leather winged-back chair and sat down with a small sigh. He sipped at his brandy, then picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. He focused his clear blue eyes on Hawke.
“Your lordship, I’ve been in service for nigh on seventy years. And for the last thirty years, I’ve been waiting for this exact moment,” the old fellow finally said. Then he downed the brandy in one swallow and held out his glass to Hawke for a refill. This done, he sat back against the cushion and looked about the room. The firelight was licking every corner of the huge space, even reaching up into the ceiling moldings high above them.
“I don’t really know quite where to begin, your lordship,” he said at last.
“I find the beginning is usually appropriate,” Hawke said with a gentle laugh. But Pelham was not amused.
“ ’Tis a serious matter I’ve come to discuss, m’lord.”
“Sorry,” Alex said, and getting to his feet, he began pacing back and forth before the fire, hands clasped behind his back. Something fairly momentous was afoot.
“Your grandfather left this box for you in my trust. He was very clear about its disposition. I was to give it to you as soon as I felt that you were in a sufficiently proper state of mind to receive it.”
“I see,” Alex said, nervously glancing over at him. “A proper state of mind, you say. All very mysterious, old thing.”
“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 sunny place.”
“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, running the tips of his fingers over the lid and smiling at them both. “Isn’t it?”
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.