Serafina and the Black Cloak (21 page)

Over the next few hours, the word spread, and the guests and servants began preparing for the upcoming gathering.

“My aunt and uncle are going to want me to be there, so I’ve got to go,” Braeden said glumly. “I wish you could come with me. You must be as hungry as I am.”

“I’m starving. It’s going to be in the Banquet Hall, right? I’ll be there in spirit. Just don’t let anyone play the pipe organ,” Serafina said.

“I’ll sneak you some food,” he said as they parted.

While Braeden went to his bedroom to dress for the gathering, Serafina snuck into position. She moved through the secret passages behind the upper levels of the organ that she’d learned
about from Mr. Pratt and Miss Whitney. There she hid in the organ loft, among the seven hundred brass pipes, some reaching five, ten, twenty feet in height. From here she had a wonderful
bird’s-eye view of the room.

The Banquet Hall was the largest room she’d ever laid eyes on, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling high enough for a hawk to soar in. Rows of flags and pendants hung down from above, like the
throne room of an ancient king. The stone walls were adorned with medieval armor, crossed spears, and rich tapestries that looked extremely old but well worth climbing someday. In the center of the
room there was a massively long oak dining table ringed with hand-carved chairs intended for the Vanderbilts and sixty-four of their closest friends. But tonight, no one was sitting at the table.
The servants had laid it out with a cornucopian buffet of food. In addition to the selection of roast beef, brook trout, chicken à l’orange, endless trays of vegetables, and rosemary
potatoes au gratin, there were all sorts of chocolate desserts and fruit tarts. The pumpkin pie, like all pumpkin pie, looked like something a dog would eat, but the whipped Chantilly cream on top
of it looked delicious.

She watched in silence as weary, saddened people streamed into the room, exchanged a few words with Mrs. Vanderbilt, and then joined the gathering. In what appeared to be a valiant effort to
stay upbeat, Mr. and Mrs. Brahms came in and tried to eat some food and find some solace in the company of the others. Mr. Vanderbilt went over and spoke to them, and they seemed to find great
comfort in his words and touch. He then went over to the pastor and his wife and consoled them about their lost son. He went next to Nolan’s distraught mother and father. Nolan’s father
was the blacksmith, but he and his wife were welcome here. Mr. Vanderbilt spoke with them for a long time. The more she watched him, the more her feelings toward him softened. There seemed to be
true and genuine caring in him, not just for his guests, but for the people who worked for him as well.

Braeden, following his uncle’s example and looking particularly neat in his black jacket and vest, did his best to talk with a young red-haired girl in a blue dress. The young lady
appeared to be more than a little frightened by everything that had been going on. There were other children there as well, looking scared and sullen. Mr. Boseman, the estate superintendent, was in
attendance, along with Mr. Pratt and Miss Whitney and many other familiar faces. It seemed to her that the only person missing was poor old Mr. Rostonov. Serafina overheard one of the manservants
come in and say that Mr. Rostonov had sent word that he was too heartsick to attend.

She glanced over at Mr. Thorne and Mr. Bendel, who were standing together near the fire. Mr. Thorne looked haggard and tired. When he started to cough a little, he covered his mouth and turned
away from Mr. Bendel. It appeared Mr. Thorne might be feeling ill or coming down with a cold. Such a difference from the other times she’d seen him. Nobody was feeling good tonight.

When she saw that nearly everyone was present, Mrs. Vanderbilt turned to Mr. Thorne and put her hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to play something for
us.…”

Mr. Thorne looked reluctant.

“Indeed,” Mr. Bendel said encouragingly. “We could all use a bit of cheering up.”

“Of course. I would be honored to oblige,” Mr. Thorne said quietly, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and gathering himself. It took several seconds, but he seemed to find a
second wind. He glanced around the room as if looking for inspiration.

“Shall I send the footmen for your violin?” Mrs. Vanderbilt asked, trying to be helpful.

“No, no, thank you. I was thinking I would give that magnificent pipe organ a try…” Mr. Thorne said.

Serafina panicked. She had heard the pipe organ many times before from the basement. She couldn’t even imagine how loud it would be when she was crouching among its pipes. It would break
her eardrums for sure! She hurried to wiggle herself out of her hiding spot and escape.

At the same time, Braeden rushed forward and grabbed Mr. Thorne’s arm. “Perhaps you could play the piano instead, Mr. Thorne. I do love the piano.”

Surprised, Mr. Thorne paused and looked at his young friend. “Is that what you would prefer, Master Braeden?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I’d love to hear you play.”

“Very well,” Mr. Thorne said.

Much relieved, Serafina smiled at her ally’s quick thinking and crawled back into her hiding spot.

Braeden risked a quick glance up toward her, his face momentarily betraying a self-satisfied grin. She couldn’t help but smile in return.

Mr. Thorne walked over to the grand piano.

“I thought you played the violin,” Mr. Bendel said.

“Lately, I’ve been tinkering a bit with the piano as well,” Mr. Thorne said quietly.

He sat down in front of the piano slowly, almost shyly, as if he was uncertain. He sat there for several long seconds while everyone waited. And then, without taking off his satin gloves, he
began to play. He played a soft and enchanting sonata with the grace of a virtuoso. The piece he had selected was not too sad, and not too happy, but was lovely in its own way, and it seemed to
bring everyone together in mood and spirit. Serafina marveled at how music seemed to have an almost magical ability to unite the emotions of the people in a room. Everyone seemed to truly love and
appreciate Mr. Thorne’s playing except Mr. and Mrs. Brahms, who seemed to grow sadder with every note he played. Mrs. Brahms began to sob and pulled out her handkerchief, and then her
apologetic husband had to take her away. The other guests continued to listen to Mr. Thorne’s music as he finished the sonata.

“Thank you, Mr. Thorne,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said, trying to stay positive. She looked around at everyone. “Why don’t we all see if we can have a little bite to eat and
something to drink?”

Braeden approached Mr. Thorne shyly. “You play wonderfully, sir.”

“Thank you, Braeden,” Mr. Thorne said with a small smile. “I appreciate it. I know you are a young man of discerning taste.”

“A few weeks ago, when you first arrived at Biltmore, you told us a delightful story about the boy with three wishes.”

“Yes?” Mr. Thorne looked at him.

“Do you have any others?” Braeden asked, looking around at the red-haired girl in the blue dress and the other children. “Could you tell us another story?”

Mr. Thorne paused and looked at Mrs. Vanderbilt, who nodded in agreement, looking proud of her nephew for his consideration of the others. “I think that would be wonderful if you could,
Mr. Thorne. We’d all enjoy it.”

“Then I shall endeavor to try,” Mr. Thorne agreed, nodding. He slowly waved his arm to the children. “Let’s all gather around the hearth.”

As Braeden and the other children sat in the glowing light of the fire, Mr. Thorne lowered his voice into a dramatic tone and began to tell a story.

Watching and listening from the organ loft, Serafina could see that the children were leaning forward, following the story intently. Mr. Thorne’s voice was soft at times, and then booming
with force at other times. She found herself longing to gather around and listen with the other children. Her heart ached to be a part of the world he depicted—a place where all the boys and
girls had mommas and papas and brothers and sisters. A place where the children played together in bright fields, and when they got tired, lay about in the shade of a giant tree on top of a hill.
Serafina wanted to be in that world. She wanted to live that life. The story made her long to see her momma and hear her voice. And when the story was done, she thought Mr. Thorne must be one of
the most magnificent storytellers she had ever heard.

Mrs. Vanderbilt watched Braeden sitting among the other children and looking up at Mr. Thorne. There was a contented look on her face. Braeden was finally making friends.

Serafina studied Mr. Thorne. There was no denying that he had warmed her heart. She’d loved his music and his story. And he had brought a sense of community and togetherness to the sad
gathering for a little while. Braeden and Mr. Bendel were right—he was a man of many talents.

Afterward, as the gathering was breaking up, Mrs. Vanderbilt approached Mr. Thorne and gently embraced him. “Thank you, sir, for all you’ve been doing for us. I especially appreciate
the way you’ve befriended Braeden. He thinks the world of you.”

“I just wish I could do more,” Mr. Thorne said. “These are such difficult times for everyone.”

“You’re a good man, Montgomery,” said Mr. Vanderbilt as he walked up and shook Mr. Thorne’s hand in gratitude. “Later this evening, I would like to invite you and
Mr. Bendel to join me in the Billiard Room for cognac and cigars. Just us friends.”

“Thank you very much, George,” Mr. Thorne said, bowing slightly. “I’m honored. I look forward to it.”

As Serafina watched the interaction, something didn’t sit quite right with her. Mr. Thorne looked somber, as he should at a sorrowful gathering such as this, but she noticed something
else, too. As Mr. Vanderbilt spoke with him, Mr. Thorne had the same look on his face that a possum gets when he’s gnawing on a sweet tater he’s grubbed out of the garden. He seemed
pleased with himself—too pleased, and not just for his flawless playing and his wonderful story. He seemed delighted by the personal invitation to join George Vanderbilt’s inner circle.
Braeden had told her that his uncle and Mr. Thorne had only known each other for a few months, but now she could see there was a stronger connection developing between them, a growing personal
bond. The Vanderbilts were one of the most famous, wealthy, and powerful families in all of America, and Mr. Thorne had just made himself a most valued friend.

She looked over at Braeden to see if he, too, sensed something was amiss, but he wasn’t even looking at Mr. Thorne. As everyone was leaving the room, he was walking along the buffet table,
discreetly stuffing pieces of breaded chicken into his pocket. Then he snatched a little jar of clotted cream from the scone tray. She couldn’t help but feel her mouth watering at the sight
of the glorious food. She’d forgotten how hungry she was, and Braeden seemed to know exactly what she liked.

As he followed his aunt and uncle out of the room, Braeden looked up at her.

She signaled for him to meet her outside. There was much to talk about.

She knew Mr. Thorne was well liked, but to her, he was too talented, too kind, too
something
. And she still couldn’t figure out why he had called Mr. Rostonov
“Papa.”

She couldn’t put it all together, but she smelled a rat.

S
erafina met Braeden outside in the darkness at the base of the great house’s rear foundation, where they hoped no one would see them. The
forested valley of the French Broad River lay below them, and the black silhouette of the mountains layered into the distance. A mist was rising up from the canopy of the valley trees as if the
entire forest was breathing.

“Did you see how well Mr. Thorne played the piano?” Serafina asked in disbelief. “Did you know he could do that?”

“No, but he can do a lot of things,” Braeden said, pulling the bits of chicken out of his pocket and handing them over to her.

“You’re right. He can,” she said as she gobbled the chicken down. “We keep saying that, but how is it possible?”

“That’s just the way he is,” Braeden said as Serafina slurped up the clotted cream.

“But what do you know about Mr. Thorne?” she asked as she wiped her mouth. “I mean, what do you really
know
about him?”

“My uncle says that he should be an inspiration to us all.”

“Yes, but how do you know you can trust him?”

“I told you. He saved Gidean. And he’s been very helpful to my aunt and uncle. I don’t understand why you dislike him so much.”

“We’ve got to follow the clues,” she said.

“He’s a good man!” Braeden said, becoming increasingly upset. “You can’t just go around accusing everyone. He’s been nothing but nice to me!”

She nodded in understanding. Braeden was a loyal person. “But stop for a second. Who is he, Braeden?”

“He’s a friend of Mr. Bendel and my uncle.”

“Yes, but where does he come from?”

“Mr. Bendel told me that way back before the War Between the States, Mr. Thorne owned a large estate in South Carolina. It was burned and destroyed by the union troops. He’d been
born and raised a rich man, a landowner, but he lost every penny and had to flee for his life.”