First course:
Rabbits
Second:
Cockles
Third:
Loin of Veal
Fourth:
Quails
Fifth:
Sparrows
Sixth:
Jellies
When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewithal so sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”
“He knew his Wyatt.” Colm leaned back in his chair, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up, ran his hand through his thick brown hair. Young fogey that he was, nearly British after his long studies of English literary history, he flushed red in patches on his Shropshire-lad cheeks, and fanned himself with one of George’s auction catalogs.
“Did you see this?” Jess plucked a small sheaf of notes from The Accomplisht Cook. The papers bookmarked a passage titled “To dress Tortoise.” Cast off the head, feet, and tail, and boil it in water, wine, and salt, being boil’d pull the shell asunder, and pick the meat from the skins, and the gall from the liver, save the eggs whole if a female, and stew the eggs, meat and liver in a dish with some grated nutmeg, a little sweet herbs minced small, and some sweet butter … “He went to town with this one.” Jess read the collector’s notes under her breath. “To begin with, Turtle soup, / to sail with, Turtle soup … / to dine on mince, and slices of quince, / to eat with a runcible spoon … What is a runcible spoon anyway?” She unfolded the collector’s notes to see his drawing. “That’s not a spoon! That’s more of a … hmm …”
“Focus,” George admonished as he examined Anna Wecker’s tiny 1679 Neu, Köstlich, und nutzliches Koch-buch. Worms had drilled through the later chapters, and the title page was much worn, but George marveled at the gorgeous typeface, so feminine, capitals all curves.
They had to hurry, but the longer they looked, the more convinced they became that they were holding treasures in their hands, and the more convinced they became, the harder it was to evaluate the books. The recipes entranced, and the collector’s notes distracted. They could not stop peeking at McClintock’s black-ink menus and thumbnail sketches.
“Jess!” George told her. “Put that back.”
She took a last look at the turtle-soup drawings, replaced them, and turned to another treasure, a fragile American quarto titled The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, by “A Lady.” The book fell open in her hands to “Chap. XV.: Of Making Cakes &c.” To Ice a great Cake, Jess read, Take the whites of twenty-four eggs … and even as she read, new sketches fluttered onto her lap. A woman’s arm, a torso, three different drawings of a pair of legs. Legs crossed, legs spread, legs pressed close together—each study small, but revealing—tendrils of pubic hair, pointed toes—all drafted with a naturalist’s attention.
“I wonder who she was.”
“That’s Hannah Glasse,” George said after a quick search online. “And watch the binding please.”
“I didn’t mean the author.” Jess folded the little nudes away again.
“Oh, my God,” George gasped. “This is a signed Mrs. Fisher.”
Jess leaned over the table to view the book he held open in his hands. The book was slender, the pages smooth and unspotted, with clear simple type. Recipes for Sweet Pickle Pears, Sweet Pickle Prunes, Sweet Watermelon Rind Pickle, Onion Pickles.
Colm shook his head. “I think you’ve got to bring somebody in.”
For once they could speak freely. Sandra was tending the front yard—at least for the moment. She never stepped outside for long, and when she did, hacking back the blackberry canes, she didn’t venture far. Through the window they could see her in her old straw hat.
George told Colm, “If we bring in a specialist, we risk another rival.” He’d informed Sandra that he knew Raj was looking at the books, and he’d tried to find out who else she had invited in, but she only turned away.
“You could get a scholar and pay him up front as a consultant and he doesn’t get to bid,” said Colm.
“It wouldn’t work that way.”
Colm whipped out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “I think you’d get a more accurate estimate—maybe lower than what we would come up with.”
“Maybe higher.” George turned back to the reference books and catalogs in front of him. “I just don’t know what Raj is offering,” he murmured. “If I had a …”
His voice faded as Jess returned to the kitchen for another stack. How strange the disemboweled room looked with its cabinets open, emptied of their treasures. A skin-deep kitchen, cupboards bare, while the countertops remained cluttered with cheap cookware, spotted bananas, coupons, receipts, bills. A calligraphed card lay open next to the toaster.
“Come in here! You have to see this.”
“Don’t tell me you found another Gouffé,” Colm called back.
“No, it’s really strange.”
“Could you just bring it out?” George didn’t want to stop typing.
But she was afraid to pick up the card. Dramatically, she thought: What if Sandra caught her prying? What if Jess’s fingerprints were on it? “No, you have to come here.”
Reluctantly, Colm came in. He stood with Jess and the two of them gazed at the card. “George …,” Colm called in a weary voice, “you’d better have a look.”
Evidently unworried about fingerprints, George picked up the card and read it twice.
A DONATION TO THE GAY AND LESBIAN LEGAL ALLIANCE
HAS BEEN MADE
IN HONOR OF SANDRA MCCLINTOCK
BY
RAJEEV CHANDRA
“Raj!” George was amazed at his ingenious friend.
“I didn’t know Sandra was gay,” Jess said.
The three of them stared at the card in George’s hand. “I don’t know what she is,” George said at last.
“Maybe we should find out,” Colm suggested.
“We aren’t even half done.”
“Why isn’t Raj sorting?” Jess asked.
“I’m sure he’s seen everything,” George said nervously.
“How do you know?”
Because that would be just like Raj, George thought, to assess everything in advance and on his own time and then make his own preemptive offer. “He’s very experienced,” George said. “And very clever.”
“He knows Sandra,” Jess said. Softly, Geoffrey slipped into the room. On little cat feet, he sprang onto the kitchen counter. Unconsciously, Jess lowered her voice in front of the cat. “What have we found out about her?”
“I know enough,” George said. “She needs money. She wants to play me against Raj for the best price. She claims she’s afraid to sell the books. She’s nuts.”
“That’s not the way to think about it,” Jess said. “You’ve got everything backward.”
“Oh, really?”
“This strategy of assessing books is wrong.”
“And what would you suggest, Jess?” George inquired.
“Hmm,” Jess said, delaying her answer just a moment, for the simple reason that she enjoyed seeing George exasperated. “I would suggest that instead of focusing on the collection, you think about the owner.”