The Bluest Blood Read Online Free
live up to this house.”
“Miss Pepper, isn’t it?”
My sophisticated response was to bang—loudly—my head against the cabinet’s glass door, startled as I was by Neddy Roederer’s voice. Had the etched glass been of a lower quality, I would have required stitches. As it was, only my ego was lacerated.
I’d met him the week before at the library ceremony honoring the Roederer Trust gift, a collection of art history and photography books, plus an annual bequest. “Mr. Roederer,” I croaked in a humiliated voice.
It wasn’t odd that I remembered him, but it was head-bangingly shocking that he remembered me. Me! I couldn’t have been more irrationally dazzled had he been the original, certified Prince Charming.
Which he was not. He was a tall, rangy man with forgettable features, dark-rimmed glasses, and a shock of black hair, all of which bore an unfortunate resemblance to the effigy across the way.
“Did you think I’d forget you?” he asked with a warm smile. “Who else inspired the newspaper staff to write about the library’s needs? Or to have our son, Griffin, shoot the photos for the article? You’re the reason we became involved.” He gestured at the roomful of people. “So I suppose you’re the reason for tonight as well.”
I held my breath. I felt like Harriet Beecher Stowe must have when Lincoln called her the little lady who started the Civil War. Fortunately, I had no idea how apt that comparison was.
“For which aid, assistance, and prodding, I’m quite grateful,” he said.
“We were admiring your collection,” Mackenzie said, saving me from having to formulate words while I remained flabbergasted. “You seem particularly fond of seventeenth century English works.”
“An interesting time for literature, don’t you think, Mr.…”
I found my voice, or most of it, and began introductions, feeling less ept with each stammered approach to the mystery of Mackenzie’s C. K. What the hell. “This is Caleb,” I said. “Caleb Mackenzie.”
Mackenzie winked at me. That wasn’t his name, either, then.
Roederer shook Mackenzie’s hand with boyish, semiawkward charm. “Restoration works intrigue me,” he said. “Perhaps you’d enjoy one of my favorites, an interesting edition of Pilgrim’s Progress, although not the original, not the first. This edition wasn’t printed until 1690, but it’s quite beautiful.”
He bent to insert a tiny key in the lock. “Climate is controlled in these cabinets,” he added. “But doesn’t hurt the books to breathe real air once in a while.”
I backed off, afraid to be near a priceless object after my unfortunate encounter with the cabinet door. I was sure I’d tip my champagne onto its pages, or have a sneezing fit.
A thick-featured man with a shelf of eyebrows had been watching our threesome, and as Edward Franklin Roederer retrieved his book, the observer moved closer, craning his neck to see the title.
Roederer seemed amused and pleased by the other man’s curiosity. “All bibliophiles welcome,” he said. “ Pilgrim’s Progress, 1690 edition, beautifully illustrated. Come, look.”
The man seemed taken aback, as if he’d expected a different response. “You like old books, too, eh?” He made his words half inquiry, half sneer.
Roederer’s smile became tentative, but he nodded. “A passion of mine for some time now. And do you share it, Mr.…” He stopped to study the man, who said nothing. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? You look familiar. But I seem to need assistance remembering where it was.” He extended his free hand. “Edward Roederer. Everyone calls me Neddy, I’m afraid. And unfortunately, my memory for faces far exceeds my ability to recall names.”
The other man waited longer than was civil before proffering his hand, all the while peering at his host. Then, as they shook hands, he apparently had done enough reconnoitering to respond. “Didn’t think we’d met in person,” he said, “but
“Miss Pepper, isn’t it?”
My sophisticated response was to bang—loudly—my head against the cabinet’s glass door, startled as I was by Neddy Roederer’s voice. Had the etched glass been of a lower quality, I would have required stitches. As it was, only my ego was lacerated.
I’d met him the week before at the library ceremony honoring the Roederer Trust gift, a collection of art history and photography books, plus an annual bequest. “Mr. Roederer,” I croaked in a humiliated voice.
It wasn’t odd that I remembered him, but it was head-bangingly shocking that he remembered me. Me! I couldn’t have been more irrationally dazzled had he been the original, certified Prince Charming.
Which he was not. He was a tall, rangy man with forgettable features, dark-rimmed glasses, and a shock of black hair, all of which bore an unfortunate resemblance to the effigy across the way.
“Did you think I’d forget you?” he asked with a warm smile. “Who else inspired the newspaper staff to write about the library’s needs? Or to have our son, Griffin, shoot the photos for the article? You’re the reason we became involved.” He gestured at the roomful of people. “So I suppose you’re the reason for tonight as well.”
I held my breath. I felt like Harriet Beecher Stowe must have when Lincoln called her the little lady who started the Civil War. Fortunately, I had no idea how apt that comparison was.
“For which aid, assistance, and prodding, I’m quite grateful,” he said.
“We were admiring your collection,” Mackenzie said, saving me from having to formulate words while I remained flabbergasted. “You seem particularly fond of seventeenth century English works.”
“An interesting time for literature, don’t you think, Mr.…”
I found my voice, or most of it, and began introductions, feeling less ept with each stammered approach to the mystery of Mackenzie’s C. K. What the hell. “This is Caleb,” I said. “Caleb Mackenzie.”
Mackenzie winked at me. That wasn’t his name, either, then.
Roederer shook Mackenzie’s hand with boyish, semiawkward charm. “Restoration works intrigue me,” he said. “Perhaps you’d enjoy one of my favorites, an interesting edition of Pilgrim’s Progress, although not the original, not the first. This edition wasn’t printed until 1690, but it’s quite beautiful.”
He bent to insert a tiny key in the lock. “Climate is controlled in these cabinets,” he added. “But doesn’t hurt the books to breathe real air once in a while.”
I backed off, afraid to be near a priceless object after my unfortunate encounter with the cabinet door. I was sure I’d tip my champagne onto its pages, or have a sneezing fit.
A thick-featured man with a shelf of eyebrows had been watching our threesome, and as Edward Franklin Roederer retrieved his book, the observer moved closer, craning his neck to see the title.
Roederer seemed amused and pleased by the other man’s curiosity. “All bibliophiles welcome,” he said. “ Pilgrim’s Progress, 1690 edition, beautifully illustrated. Come, look.”
The man seemed taken aback, as if he’d expected a different response. “You like old books, too, eh?” He made his words half inquiry, half sneer.
Roederer’s smile became tentative, but he nodded. “A passion of mine for some time now. And do you share it, Mr.…” He stopped to study the man, who said nothing. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? You look familiar. But I seem to need assistance remembering where it was.” He extended his free hand. “Edward Roederer. Everyone calls me Neddy, I’m afraid. And unfortunately, my memory for faces far exceeds my ability to recall names.”
The other man waited longer than was civil before proffering his hand, all the while peering at his host. Then, as they shook hands, he apparently had done enough reconnoitering to respond. “Didn’t think we’d met in person,” he said, “but
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