The rest of the board watched this as though at Wimbledon, though with considerably less interest. It was pretty clear who had the balls, and who would win.
Fifty minutes later they’d almost reached the end of the agenda. There was one oatmeal cookie left, the members staring but too polite to take it. They’d discussed the heating bills, the membership drive, the ratty old volumes left to them in wills, instead of money. The books were generally sermons, or lurid Victorian poetry, or the dreary daily diary of a trip up the Amazon or into Africa to shoot and stuff some poor wild creature.
They discussed having another sale of books, but after the last debacle that was a short discussion.
Elizabeth took notes and had to force herself not to lip-synch to each board member’s comments. It was a liturgy. Familiar, soothing in a strange way. The same words repeated over and over every meeting. For ever and ever. Amen.
A sound suddenly interrupted that comforting liturgy, a sound so unique and startling Porter almost jumped out of his chair.
“What was that?” whispered Ken Haslam. For him it was almost a shout.
“It’s the doorbell, I think,” said Winnie.
“The doorbell?” asked Porter. “I didn’t know we had one.”
“Put in in 1897 after the Lieutenant Governor visited and couldn’t get in,” said Mr. Blake, as though he’d been there. “Never heard it myself.”
But he heard it again. A long, shrill bell. Elizabeth had locked the front door to the Literary and Historical Society as soon as everyone had arrived. A precaution against being interrupted. Though since hardly anyone ever visited it was more habit than necessity. She’d also hung a sign on the thick wooden door. Board Meeting in Progress. Library will reopen at noon. Thank you. Merci.
The bell sounded again. Someone was leaning on it, finger jammed into the button.
Still they stared at each other.
“I’ll go,” said Elizabeth.
Porter looked down at his papers, the better part of valor.
“No,” Winnie stood. “I’ll go. You all stay here.”
They watched Winnie disappear down the corridor and heard her feet on the wooden stairs. There was silence. Then a minute later her feet on the stairs again.
They listened to the footsteps clicking and clacking closer. She arrived but stopped at the door, her face pale and serious.
“There’s someone there. Someone who wants to speak to the board.”
“Well,” demanded Porter, remembering he was their leader, now that the elderly woman had gone to the door. “Who is it?”
“Augustin Renaud,” she said and saw the looks on their faces. Had she said “Dracula” they could not have been more startled. Though, for the English, startled meant raised eyebrows.
Every eyebrow in the room was raised, and if General Wolfe could have managed it, he would have.
“I left him outside,” she said into the silence.
As if to underscore that the doorbell shrieked again.
“What should we do?” Winnie asked, but instead of turning to Porter she looked at Elizabeth. They all did.
“We need to take a vote,” Elizabeth said at last. “Should we see him?”
“He’s not on the agenda,” Mr. Blake pointed out.
“That’s right,” said Porter, trying to wrestle back control. But even he looked at Elizabeth.
“Who’s in favor of letting Augustin Renaud speak to the board?” Elizabeth asked.
Not a hand was raised.
Elizabeth lowered her pen, not taking note of the vote. Giving one curt nod she stood. “I’ll tell him.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Winnie.
“No, dear, you stay here. I’ll be right back. I mean, really?” She paused at the door, taking in the board and General Wolfe above. “How bad could it be?”
But they all knew the answer to that. When Augustin Renaud came calling it was never good.