My Brother's Crown (3 page)

Soon I was back on the interstate in my rental car, one glance at the
clock confirming I was still on schedule. Nana Talbot was a stickler for punctuality, whether the inevitable delays of travel were a part of the equation or not, so I was glad my flight from Seattle had arrived almost half an hour early. That bought me even more time to pick up the car and drive into town, including my stop for a quick lunch and a round of clothing gymnastics in that ceramic-tiled petri dish.

Now that I was back in Virginia, my mind inevitably went to thoughts of my grandfather, who passed away last November, just seven months ago. This was the first time I'd returned since the funeral, and though I was eager to see my grandmother, a big part of me hadn't been ready to come back just yet. My grief was still so strong, and I knew that being here in Granddad's world without him in it would only make things hurt more. At least I had a busy day ahead of me, which would provide a good distraction.

I'd been on a plane since eleven o'clock last night and had only managed to doze a little in transit, but there would be no rest for the weary. Between now and any hope of a bed, I had several important tasks that had to be accomplished, starting with this first one, a visit to the Richmond National Bank and Trust to meet up with my grandmother and some guy from her insurance company, a slick and weaselly type, no doubt. In this area, the Talbot name brought on an enormous amount of bowing and scraping—and attempted shystering—at least to those familiar with the family paper-and-printing empire.

Out in Seattle, on the other hand, even though I worked in a branch of the same company and was a member of the same family, my connection rarely registered. There, the Talbot name wasn't even enough to get me an extra shot in my latte at the company cafeteria. Not that I cared about that sort of thing—quite the opposite, in fact. I had a distinct aversion to being in the spotlight and was more than happy to fly under the radar whenever possible.

Traffic was heavy but moving, and in the end it took me less time to reach downtown than it did to find a parking place once there. At least I still had a good thirteen minutes to spare by the time I set out on foot, which meant I should arrive approximately ten minutes early. To me, that was an eon—though in Nana's world, of course, ten minutes
early
was
on time—unless going to a social event, in which case “on time” was twenty minutes late.

Passing the dark glass of a storefront as I walked, I caught sight of my reflection, though it took a moment for me to realize what I was seeing. That tall woman in the professional-looking outfit with her straight hair hanging smooth and loose to her shoulders, her features enhanced with the just right amount of makeup, was
me.
Back home, I lived in lab coats over jeans and casual tops, my hair ponytailed, my face bare save for the occasional dab of ChapStick on my lips. But I couldn't do that here, not around my grandmother.

The only reason I even owned cosmetics in the first place and knew how to use them was because of Nana, who had insisted on charm school for each of her grandchildren upon the occasion of their thirteenth birthdays to mold them into “proper young men and women”—whether they wanted to go or not. I was just a few months older than my cousin Danielle, so at least we'd been able to attend the month-long summer session together. She and I had always gotten along beautifully despite the differences in our personalities. Where I was all science and facts and don't-rock-the-boat, she was art and spontaneity and rock-the-boat-till-it-tips-so-we-can-go-swimming. I still remembered how, during the girls' beauty lessons, the ever-artistic Danielle had taken the application of eye shadow to a whole new level, combining ten colors or more before she was done. A true creative spirit, she was genuinely puzzled when scolded for having used the makeup to give herself “Jezebel eyes,” which was apparently worse than having no eyes at all.

My two brothers—one older, one younger—had each been forced to go as well, and though they had fought it, the lessons seemed to stick in the end as they were transformed from rowdy boys to polite young men. That made them a huge hit with the ladies, especially their eventual spouses. Though I, too, had emerged from the experience in a somewhat new and improved version—well, except for the cosmetics part, which only came into play when I was with Nana or had to do something very public, like present a paper—my good manners had not made me a hot commodity with the opposite sex, much less helped me land a mate.

Then again, even if proper etiquette had been for my brothers the behavioral equivalent of pheromones, it hadn't done a thing for me. I'd been a chemistry geek in high school, college, and grad school, and these days I spent more time flirting with leuco dyes or teasing out thermochromatic liquid crystals than I did with eligible men.

Correction. Quite a few of my colleagues were male, straight, and single, so technically they fit the term. But none of them were what might be considered viable options. On the rare occasion when I did actually cross paths with someone interesting, I was usually too inhibited to act on it. My job as a research chemist offered much in the way of intellectual stimulation and professional fulfillment, but it also gave me a good place to hide.

I reached the bank and again caught my reflection. Good thing the guys in the lab couldn't see me now, I decided as I broke the image by pushing open the door, or they might actually realize I was a girl.

Stepping inside, I spotted Nana right away, perfectly coiffed and dressed in a white linen suit, standing across the broad marble lobby and speaking with a brawny-looking fellow with neatly clipped sandy brown hair, wearing a suit and tie. Probably the head of bank security. As I advanced toward them, I was glad to have arrived ahead of the insurance man, as this would give my grandmother and me a few minutes alone. We hadn't been together since Granddad's funeral, and I wanted a minute to reconnect privately.

“Darling,” Nana said, turning to greet me with a warm smile.

We embraced, and I closed my eyes as I breathed in the familiar woodsy-floral scent of her Calèche perfume. Though I had grown up on the other side of the country and spent only a few weeks here in Virginia every summer, somehow this was the smell of home.

We pulled apart, but before I could ask how she was doing, she turned and placed a hand on the security guard's muscular arm.

“Renee, I'd like to introduce Blake Keller of Eagleton Trust Insurance. Blake, this is my granddaughter, Renee Talbot.”

I blinked, startled.
This
was the insurance agent? Whatever I'd been expecting, this mountain of a man was certainly not it. Trying not to let
my surprise show, I met his gaze, only to realize that he looked equally surprised in return.

“The scientist?” he said, his tone almost doubtful.

“Yes. Nice to meet you.” I offered a hand, but it took a moment for him to respond.

“Sorry,” he said as he gripped it and gave a firm shake. “I…” His arms dropping back to his sides, he added, “Never mind. Nice to meet you too.”

“Is something wrong?” Nana asked him. “You seem startled.”

He gave an embarrassed laugh. “No. It's just that when you told me about your granddaughter Renee, the brilliant research scientist only three years on the job and already such a rising star…” His voice trailed off as he turned back toward me and added, “Well, let's just say I envisioned a different sort of look. My apologies.”

I suppose I should have been flattered by what he'd obviously intended as a compliment, but somehow his assumptions seemed more egregious than mine. Had it really been that much of a stretch to align the body with the brains? Couldn't a woman be smart
and
attractive? Granted, the mad scientist look he'd been expecting was probably closer to my day-to-day appearance than this was, but still. I doubted he would have drawn the same conclusions were I a man.

Feeling uncharacteristically emboldened, I met his eyes. “Don't worry about it. I left my test tubes, safety goggles, and frumpy clothes outside.” Before he could respond, I couldn't help but add, “Right next to your snake oil, actuarial tables, and scare tactics.”

“Renee!” Nana scolded.

Blake just laughed. “Touché. Though you're probably thinking of a different department than mine. I'm in Security and Recovery. We don't deal much in snake oil.”

I hesitated, our repartee interrupted by his surprising words. “Security and Recovery? For an insurance company?”

“Eagleton Trust, dear,” Nana said. “They're one of the world's leading underwriters of fine art, among other things. The Persecution Pamphlet is insured through them.”

“Okay.” I turned back to Blake. “But what are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Just providing a little extra security while the pamphlet's out of the vault. Protecting our interests.”

I thought about that for a moment. Four years ago, the historical document Nana and I had come here today to retrieve had been appraised at more than a million dollars. I guess it made sense that the insurer might want to keep a close eye on it, especially when in transit.

The three of us were interrupted by the bank's manager, a smartly dressed woman with silver hair, blue eyes, and a melodious Southern voice. “Mrs. Talbot? You folks are welcome to come on back now if you like.”

Glad to get things moving again, I took Nana's arm and we followed the lady, Blake trailing behind. She led us past the vault of safety deposit boxes and down a labyrinth of hallways until we came to a separate section. This area was protected by a sophisticated digital entry system and housed a specific type of safety deposit box storage, the kind rated by insurance companies as HPR for “highly protected risk.” Climate- and humidity-controlled, with UV-safe lighting and extra security features, this art protection vault contained double-locked boxes that ranged from very small to quite huge, inside of which the wealthy of Richmond could safely keep their most valuable art, antiques, and documents when not in use.

Nana handed Blake her key, and then she and I watched as he and the manager attended to the locks. Moments later the small door was open, and Blake was sliding out a rectangular metal container.

The manager showed us to a viewing room and then excused herself as Nana and I took a seat at the table and set our purses on the floor. Blake moved into place across from us, leaning forward and holding out the container with both hands, as if he were a coachman presenting a glass slipper on a royal pillow to Cinderella. With a smile, Nana lifted the lid and removed from inside the two items that were its entire contents: a pair of white cotton gloves and a pale green, custom-made case about the size and shape of a VHS videotape holder.

“I'll be right outside if you need me,” he said, and then he left the room, taking the metal container with him.

Glad to be alone at last, I ignored the case for a moment to speak softly to Nana.

“Are you doing okay? I know this must be emotional for you.”

She blinked, looking away for a moment. “It is, but I'm fine, dear. Really. And it does feel good to be finishing what your grandfather started.”

“Agreed.” I gave her a reassuring smile as I slipped an arm around her slender shoulders for a quick hug.

“As for this,” she said, the sparkle returning to her eye, “I'd just like to take a quick look to make sure it's okay. You can examine it more closely once we're home.”

“Oh, I will,” I said. There was something I wanted to look into, an idea that had come to me when I was thinking about the pamphlet late last night during my flight.

I pulled on the gloves as she carefully set the case on the table in front of me. Chemically stable inside and out, this preservation-grade polyethylene holder featured an alkaline buffer and a zeolite molecular trap, with a pH-appropriate, acid- and lignin-free interior. I only knew this because I was part of the team that designed it, four years ago, to hold one very special document. I'd still been in grad school, working on my doctorate at the time, but my grandfather had generously invited me to be a part of the process because of my field of study.

My gloved fingers were practically trembling now as I opened the case wide, reached inside for the familiar document, and held it up so both Nana and I could see it. Known as the Persecution Pamphlet, it was a mere eight pages long but contained a history beyond measure.

The cream-colored pamphlet had been created in 1685, and though it looked like a simple collection of French poems and drawings, it actually contained within its pages a coded guide that showed the way out of France for Huguenots fleeing the country in the face of religious persecution. At the time, multiple copies of the pamphlet had been printed and quietly distributed by a small group of Huguenot sympathizers to those in need, and the information it contained had helped dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of Huguenots make their way to safety. But in order to protect the identities of the Good Samaritans
identified within, all copies had ultimately been re-collected and destroyed—except for one, which had been intentionally saved and passed down to future generations through the Talbot family. That one copy was what I now held in my own hands. Preserved for several centuries, it was a tangible reminder of the struggles the Huguenots endured for the sake of their faith under the reign of King Louis XIV.