“Right there on the gate. It’s a heart, isn’t it?”
“My apologies, but I don’t see a heart.”
Jim brought the car to a halt in front of the gates. Leaving the motor running, he dashed out and opened them with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times. He returned to the car, smiling broadly.
He settled himself back into the driver’s seat and started upa long, narrow drive, lined on both sides by magisterial quaking aspens. I wanted to ask again about the heart, but my attention was drawn to an ornate sign posted near a large oak. It read:CELUI QUI NE COMPREND PAS DEVRAIT APPRENDRE OU SE TAIRE.
“Who does not understand should learn or be silent,” I read. That seemed vaguely familiar, but I was still groggy and couldn’t place it.
“You speak French,” Jim said, obviously pleased.
“I read French, and not very well. Just enough to get by for my research. It’s a strange message, isn’t it? Not very welcoming.”
He shrugged. “It’s just one of their sayings. They have a lot. I pretend to understand them, but I am more like you. I think, let them have their sayings.”
As we emerged from the long drive, the campus rose up before us. The style was Collegiate Gothic, but with a slight flair of Romanesque Revival. We drove past a redbrick bell tower with ornate windows followed by an even older-looking building. Sunk into the ivy and hellebore, it stretched out in dark stone, covered in parts by a patina of vibrant green moss.
“Is that the monastery?”
“Yes. It’s a library now. Magnificent. People come from all over the world to use the books in there.”
Finally we came to a stately manor.
“The chancellor’s house,” he said. “You’ll be staying here, I believe.”
Almost Mediterranean in style, it was enormous, with a creamy exterior and dark blue shutters. From the upstairs center window a balcony with a curving wrought-iron railing jutted out. It looked like the photo on a postcard of a villa on some magical isle. As the car pulled into the rounded driveway andparked, a figure emerged from the front door. He was handsome, probably in his mid-thirties.
“Ms. Quain, it’s so nice to have you.” His dark hair was pushed up and out of his eyes. He gave me a winning smile. Dressed somewhat extravagantly in a dark burgundy blazer and expensive-looking slacks, he looked like he would be more at home in a club in Soho than in a library in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. “I’m Dorian Dubois, the head librarian. We corresponded through email, but of course it is a pleasure to meet you finally in person.”
“It’s great to meet you as well,” I said, trying to get my bearings. The grounds were gorgeous, but the altitude was definitely a concern. The air was so thin I could barely breathe. “It’s quiet,” was the most cogent thing I could think to say.
Dorian lifted my luggage and led me inside. “Hildegard is a very small school. We cap enrollment at three hundred.”
“Only three hundred students?” I stopped in the foyer of what was proving to be an obscenely gorgeous house.
“Small is the way we like it at Hildegard. We like to think of ourselves as offering a one-of-a-kind educational experience, and one of a kind by its very nature isn’t for everyone. And now everyone has gone home for the summer.”
“Everyone?”
“There is a skeleton crew, of course. We’re glad to have you here,” he continued. “It will be good to have some new blood around.” He lowered his voice, creating an air of unearned intimacy between us. “We’ve recently had a faculty member leave, and none of us is very happy about it. So if people seem a little squirrelly, that will explain it.”
My heart beat a violent tarantella against my rib cage. Thiswas my chance. “The professor who left, may I ask their field of expertise?”
“Cognitive neuro-programming,” he said.
So not archaeology after all. Interesting. Dorian led me into a large central room. From the ceiling hung an ancient-looking chandelier, but it wasn’t lit. To my right, affixed to the wall, was a large bronze heart embossed with the image of a face, and to my left was a marble table on top of which sat a vase of wildflowers. As we made small talk, I followed Dorian along the baked red tile that lined the floor and up an enormously wide staircase.
At the top of the stairs, Dorian paused and pointed down the hall to his left. “I’m just down there if you need anything. And if you’ll follow me this way,” he said, stopping outside a door at the end of the hall. “Your room.”
When he opened the door, I was nearly blinded. All the windows were open, and the room was flooded with sunlight. I could hear birdsong lilting up from the eaves beyond the window casements. The room was large and lavishly decorated with purples and blues. An intricate flower pattern adorned the walls, and the sitting area was comprised of a puffy chair and love seat in a matching print. In the far corner there was a writing desk that looked out on a large vaulted window. I set my bag down on a gorgeous four-poster bed made of dark wood and piled high with fluffy white bedding before wandering over to the window.
Outside, the grounds stretched through a series of intricate gardens and twisting paths down to a crystal-blue lake from which arose a small island, brilliant green and exploding with plant life. Beyond the lake lay a majestic pine forest.
“I didn’t realize there was a lake.”
“If you enjoy swimming, there is a pool on campus, but I’m afraid the lake is much too cold to swim in.”
I nodded and then stared back out at the expansive grounds. It was a breathtaking view, but I was struck by the noticeable lack of activity. I wondered how different it might feel during the school year.
