The Angels' Share, page 3
After Leland died, my brother Eli and I finally threw a pair of dice to decide who got the vineyard, the farm, and Highland House, our home. He’d wanted to sell it and get his money. I wanted to keep our land and the farm since it had been in the family for more than two centuries. As our lawyer said while trying to get us to quit our wrangling and settle things before the money all went up in smoke for legal fees, “Blood is thicker than water, but money is thicker than blood.”
Wasn’t it the truth?
I thought of the warring factions between Alex and Scotty at the Washington Tribune. My best friend, Kit Noland, ran the Trib’s Loudoun County bureau in Leesburg, the next town over from Middleburg, so she didn’t work in the Washington newsroom. She’d told me more than once that if she had to be in D.C. these days she’d rather put out her eyes with hot pokers.
“Come,” Prescott said. “As I promised, you’re the first person to see this since it was delivered Wednesday morning. The day before Thanksgiving.”
He was standing next to what I assumed was a painting hanging on the wall, except that a black cloth covered it. I’d noticed it as soon as I walked into the room.
He removed the cloth with care, but like a magician revealing a special trick, he waved it with a flourish. “What do you think?”
I was expecting something related to the Masons, so it took a moment to realize what it was.
In Congress, July 4, 1776. The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.
I caught my breath. “It’s the Declaration of Independence. How in the world did you get this? Isn’t it supposed to be in the National Archives?”
He flashed a smile, looking well pleased with himself. “Don’t worry, the original—the Matlack Declaration, to give it its proper name—is still in the National Archives in Washington, under lock and key with full-time guards and maximum security. But this…” He waved an expansive hand. “What you’re looking at is an extremely rare copy that was given to James Madison in the fall of 1776. November 12, to be precise. There’s a date on the back.”
Given to James Madison, who had been the president the year Ian’s cases of Madeira were bottled.
“As you can see, this copy is handwritten, not printed,” Prescott added. “By none other than Thomas Jefferson, the man who was asked by the Continental Congress to compose the original document.” He placed both hands on the silver handle of his cane and leaned closer to me. “Jefferson wrote out another copy of the Declaration of Independence, added the signers’ signatures in his own handwriting, and gave the document to James Madison. Which makes this copy priceless.”
I stepped closer to examine the document. Under the low light, it was difficult to make out the words in the elegant script, but I could still read what was written and a shiver ran through me.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
I looked up at Prescott. “Where in the world did you get this?”
“It was discovered in a box of documents in a farmhouse in Iowa by a real estate agent who was going through the owner’s possessions. Looking for items to sell and what to throw away. The provenance has been traced to James Madison as the original recipient and handwriting experts at Monticello have authenticated Jefferson’s handwriting.”
Now I knew why he’d said it was priceless.
“Have you ever looked at the signatures on the Declaration of Independence?” he asked.
I had a fuzzy memory of studying the document and who the signers were in a high school U.S. history class. “I can’t name them all, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He shook his head. “I’m not talking about who did sign it. I’m asking if you know which famous Founding Father did not.”
I dredged up my knowledge of the Continental Congress and a hot summer in Philadelphia. Thomas Jefferson had drafted the document, as Prescott just said. So what was he getting at?
I took a guess. “James Madison didn’t sign it?”
“Exactly. Madison—who drafted the Constitution—didn’t go to Philadelphia during the summer of 1776 while the Declaration of Independence was being drawn up, nor did he sign it,” Prescott said. “But as I’m sure you know, Madison and Jefferson were great friends. And, of course, Monticello, Jefferson’s home, and Montpelier, Madison’s home, were not far from each other.”
“So Thomas Jefferson gave James Madison a copy because he didn’t attend the Continental Congress,” I said.
Prescott nodded. “That makes this document only the third handwritten parchment copy of the Declaration of Independence in existence. The other two are the Matlack copy in the National Archives and a second, known as the Sussex Declaration. That copy was discovered in England a few years ago in the West Sussex Record Office, where it had been languishing for nearly two hundred years. It had been a gift to the third Duke of Richmond, who had been a big supporter of the American side during the Revolution.’”
He waited for me to take that in. “The Sussex Declaration was written horizontally and the names of the signers were copied out in a different order—not by state—by whoever hand-wrote the document,” he said. “However, the Jefferson Declaration, as I’m calling it, was written in exactly the same vertical format as the copy that was signed in Philadelphia and it’s the same size. The difference is that Jefferson signed everyone’s name. They weren’t original signatures.”
I turned back to look at the rows of signatures.
“Have a closer look, Lucie,” Prescott said. “Do you notice anything unusual? About the signatures, I mean.”
I squinted and after a moment, I said, “Well, it’s clear they were all written by the same person. And … John Hancock’s signature, which is usually the biggest, is quite small.”
“Very observant.” Prescott sounded approving. “Do you notice whose signature is the biggest in this version?”
I squinted again. “Thomas Jefferson’s.”
He cackled. “Hilarious, isn’t it? A little inside joke, because Hancock’s signature was so big in the original document. He said he signed it like that so the king of England would be sure to be able to read it. But in this copy, my copy, Jefferson got the last laugh.”
“Prescott, this really is an incredible document,” I said. “The ink has faded a lot less than the copy in the Archives.”
“It has. I also acquired a collection of letters written by Dolley Madison to her husband, as well as others written to her during the War of 1812. The ink on those letters is equally well preserved. And I acquired a rare copy of the diary of Paul Jennings, one of the Madisons’ trusted White House slaves. It was the first White House memoir ever published.”
Things were starting to make sense. “Does this copy of the Declaration of Independence have anything to do with the Madeira that Ian found and Leland supposedly still has hidden away? You want it because James Madison was meant to drink a toast to the signing of the Declaration in 1809—am I right? Those could have been the very bottles.”
“You’re mostly right,” he said. “I want to drink those bottles of Madeira at a special party I’m planning for my brother Masons on December 14, just before the Miranda Foundation’s holiday gala.”
“You want to drink it?”
“Not all of it, but why not drink a few bottles? Even accounting for the angels’ share, there will be enough for everyone to have a small glass as a toast.”
In spite of myself, I smiled. The angels’ share was the amount of alcohol or spirits lost to evaporation in drinks like cognac, whiskey, Madeira, or wine—anything that aged in barrels or casks. The story went that the angels drank the alcohol that evaporated through the porous oak because it rightfully belonged to them. For me it always conjured images of rowdy, bacchanalian parties with drunken angels tripping over their celestial gowns and knocking against each other’s wings as they cavorted in heaven.
“That Madeira is also priceless,” I said. “Regardless of how much the angels drank.”
“That’s exactly the point.” He threw me a look as if drinking it were the most logical thing to do. “Lucie, there are two weeks until the fourteenth. I’ll do anything you need to help you find those bottles.”
“Even if there were two years, I wouldn’t know where to begin to look. It’s not hidden under a bed or in a closet, you know. And I’ve been through the attic and Leland’s wine cellar in the basement.”
“Maybe your father left a clue in the documents he kept in his safe-deposit box.”
“What safe-deposit box?”
“Good Lord,” he said, exasperated. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know about that, either?”
I folded my arms across my chest and gave him a stony look, waiting for him to go on. If I spoke, I would scream or cry or yell. How many more secrets did my father still have that would pop up out of the blue and bite me?
Prescott let out a long breath as if he was weary of explaining so many things about my father that I should have already known. “Leland kept a safe-deposit box at Blue Ridge Federal. I assumed you would have emptied it out when he died. He kept items there … things he didn’t want anyone to see.”
“You mean, things he didn’t want my mother to see.” My voice rose. I was hurt, but I was angry, too.
I thought—hoped—by now we’d straightened everything out, learned everything there was to know about my complicated, flawed father. Gambling debts. Loans. Everything had come down on me like a house of bricks after Leland died. And then there had been the son he never told us about, David Phelps, my biracial half-brother, whom I’d met only a few months ago.
“Lucie.” Prescott’s eyes were filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry. I don’t wish to hurt you, my dear. But your father came across something—a letter—while he was doing some research about the Jamestown Settlement. He wasn’t sure what it was, so he brought it to me. At the time, I had no clue what it meant, either.”
“Go on.” At least he wasn’t talking about documents referring to another affair or another child Leland had fathered.
Prescott pointed to the Declaration of Independence. “Now I do know what your father’s letter meant, thanks to this.”
I was growing irritated and tired of his riddles. “What are you talking about? What does the Declaration of Independence have to do with Jamestown and a letter my father found?”
“More than you might think,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “I’ve been doing some research of my own, studying the Declaration of Independence and how Thomas Jefferson chose the wording, the language he used. And, for that matter, the language James Madison used in drafting the Constitution.”
“I’m lost, Prescott.”
He held up his hands, urging me to have patience. “Since the founding of our country there has been a mystery surrounding these documents—a lost treasure that would explain many things and would also possibly answer one of the most tantalizing puzzles of the last four hundred years. Quite by accident your father stumbled upon a valuable piece of the puzzle concerning what really happened to that lost treasure. Thanks to Leland Montgomery, I believe I have now found the final clue to its whereabouts. Or at least I hope so.”
He gave me a triumphant smile.
I’d had too much to drink. Prescott was talking in circles about some mysterious lost treasure, a puzzle my father knew about, and finding clues to its whereabouts. Maybe. That my father was involved already made me suspicious. Leland was a sucker for every bad deal, every con, every get-rich-quick scam that was out there. Had Prescott gone down the rabbit hole with him?
“What clue would that be? To what mystery, what lost treasure?”
“Why, my dear, you don’t think I’m going to tell you, do you? For one thing, I’m not quite ready. There’s one more thing I need to take care of. For another, it’s far too dangerous.” There was a twinkle in his eye. He was enjoying this.
“How is it dangerous?”
“There is a reason this secret has remained hidden, buried for nearly four centuries,” he said. “There are powerful individuals who do not want it to be revealed.”
“But you’re going to defy them? In spite of the danger?” Maybe he was pulling my leg.
“Don’t mock me, Lucie. Or underestimate me. It’s about the thrill of the hunt, as I’ve told you. And this has been the thrill of a lifetime.” He smiled. “Besides, I am an old man and I am wealthy. There is nothing anyone can do to intimidate me anymore. As the proverb goes, ‘Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority.’ It’s time to shine a light on what has been hidden in the darkness for so long. I intend to be the one who does it.”
“Yes, but if you’re only going to tell your Masonic brothers at this special party—where you were hoping to drink the Madeira—doesn’t that mean it’s still going to be a secret? Since the Masons are a secretive organization?”
He chuckled. “A very astute observation. My Masonic brothers deserve to be the first to know for a lot of reasons. Some will be upset. Others, I hope, will be intrigued. But eventually everything needs to come out in the open and I will see that it does, all in good time. In the meantime you must give me your word—once again—that you will keep this conversation strictly between the two of us. Do you understand? Tell no one.”
“Prescott—”
“Your word, Lucie.” His lighthearted demeanor was gone.
“All right, you have my word.”
“Good.” He sounded mollified. “Now you may go. But I’ll be calling on you because we must find that Madeira. In the meantime…” Once again he laid a finger over his lips. “Silence.”
As if by magic, the hidden door in the wall slid open.
I fled.
Three
It was cooler in the hall, as if someone had opened an outside door and let in a blast of frigid November air.
Which way had Prescott and I come? Which way back to the elevator?
I turned left. I hadn’t gone more than half a dozen steps before I realized I didn’t recognize the paintings on the walls. Especially the one in front of me, though it wasn’t a painting. It was a rectangle of fabric, displayed under a piece of glass. Old and fragile, it was an unusual shade of dull coppery red with a skull and crossbones stitched on it. If it hadn’t been so old, the fabric would have shimmered as if it were shot with gold. The edges were tattered and small holes were scattered through it. Bullet holes. The ragged edges were from windblown years atop a ship’s mast.
What was Prescott doing with a pirate’s flag? I read the small placard below it.
Rare Jolly Roger flag captured from the pirate ship Black Fortune off the coast of North Africa in 1790. A red flag meant no mercy shown to captives.
Another rush of cold air like icy fingers caressed the back of my neck. It was time to get out of here. I turned and walked quickly in the other direction, this time passing art I remembered and the padlocked door to the room Prescott hinted might really be a dungeon.
The elevator was waiting, just as we’d left it. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew a woman had been in this carriage and taken this elevator while Prescott and I had been together in his wine cellar and that secret room. Years ago when I was living in France recovering from my accident I took a job at the Perfume Museum in Grasse where my nose for recognizing the notes of a perfume and the sillage—the lingering scent trail the wearer leaves behind—had improved quite a lot. It was a talent that came in handy for a winemaker: I could usually correctly identify almost every aroma and note in a particular bottle of wine.
This perfume was strong and heady, evoking dusty Middle Eastern bazaars or Scheherazade spinning tales for a thousand and one nights. The scents of cardamom, lavender, and sandalwood. Something as strong and spicy as incense. I would know it immediately if I met the wearer.
Who was she and what was she doing downstairs? Why hadn’t I run into her?
The elevator deposited me in the upstairs hallway. The laughter and chatter were muted now; I must have been in Prescott’s wine cellar for longer than I realized and guests must be starting to leave. Through one of the large mullioned windows in the study where Prescott and I had spoken earlier, the afternoon sunshine had faded. Dusky gray light was turning the bushes, trees, and sculptures in the garden into smudged shadows.
I was right; the rooms were less crowded, though there were still a lot of people here. Most of them were either in the dining room finishing the ramekins of Bianca’s sinfully rich homemade flan that had been served for dessert, or sitting on sofas and chairs pulled up around the fireplace in the drawing room watching the University of Virginia wallop Virginia Tech in football on the big-screen television above the mantel.
I finally found Quinn. Actually, he found me and pulled me into a corner. He was holding a mug of black coffee, though I could still smell caipirinhas on his breath.
“Where have you been?” he asked in a low voice. “The party’s winding down. I’m ready to get out of Dodge. I ran into Alex and Scotty having it out in the butler’s pantry when I was looking for you. It was getting ugly. Those two shouldn’t be around sharp knives in the same room.”
“I was with Prescott in his wine cellar,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it at home.”
“You were in Prescott’s wine cellar? Without me?” His voice rose and he looked as upset as I knew he would be.
“Shh. Someone will hear you.”
“No wonder you didn’t answer my texts.”
“I would have if I could have, but I didn’t get them. There’s almost no service down there.” I reached into my pocket for my phone. “Damn. My phone. It’s gone.”
“Did you leave it in the wine cellar?”
I nodded. “It probably fell out when I pulled it out to try to text you. Prescott’s still down there. I need to go back and get it.”
“I’m coming with you.” He set down the coffee mug on a nearby table and followed me out of the room. “Let’s get it and then we can say our good-byes. Although I don’t know what happened to the family. They all seem to have disappeared.”
