The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [35]
I felt a momentary flush as the Professor flashed in my mind. Miss Benedict opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get the words out, her older brother, ever smiling, shot her a brief but frozen glance and broke off the exchange. Albert then introduced me to his small and fragile-looking wife, Margaret, whose elaborate pearl choker served only to make her appear more birdlike. Margaret Benedict was extremely polite, with the perfect diction and practiced gestures that bespoke a finishing school education. They stood together but, instead of appearing as a unit, she and her husband seemed to occupy separate space.
The third man was the most striking of the three. He was no more than fifty, but with a bearing so severe that the upper half of his face appeared not to move when he spoke. Miss Benedict introduced him as Jonas Lachtmann.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Lachtmann said to me, managing to sound disagreeable while attempting to be cordial. “And this is my wife, Eunice,” he added, gesturing to an attractive but lifeless woman with graying strawberry blond hair.
“Jonas is one of our leading citizens,” interjected Abigail Benedict. Whereas she and her brother had carped at each other in sibling irritation, her hostility for this man was conspicuous and profound.
Lachtmann did not reply. Provoked or not, it was obvious that no one outside the family took liberties with Hiram Benedict’s daughter.
“And how is Rebecca?” Miss Benedict continued, and then turned to me in explanation. “Jonas’ daughter is on holiday in Italy. She is one of my best friends.” She exhibited no outward change in demeanor, but I sensed this subject was disturbing to her, although she herself had raised it.
“She is quite well,” Lachtmann replied, refusing to warm even to the subject of his child.
“I believe she has gone into the countryside on her way to Rome, my dear,” added Mrs. Lachtmann stiffly. “That, at least, is what she intended in her last letter from Florence. I think the mails are probably even less reliable there than in the rest of Italy, which means they are not reliable at all.”
“I hope that the travel has not been too oppressive,” Albert Benedict remarked. “Europe can be quite difficult for the uninitiated.”
Mrs. Lachtmann smiled, although it fixed on her face as a pinched line. “Our daughter seems to be enjoying herself.”
“Please convey my best regards when you next write to her,” Benedict said.
“Yes. Philadelphia is not the same without Rebecca. Everyone says so, don’t they, Albert?” added Margaret Benedict.
Before he could answer, Miss Benedict interrupted. “As much as I know how much you’d all like to chat with Dr. Carroll,” she said, her unease now a bit more apparent, “I’m going to tear him away.”
She led me, seemingly with relief, across the room to a table at which a retainer was pouring champagne. It was a thrill to be alone with Miss Benedict. She seemed content to be in my company and I had never met a woman as beautiful or sophisticated—or so desirable.
We each took a glass and, before we drank, she held hers up and said, “To new acquaintances.” At the first sip, I recognized that what had just crossed my palate was related to what I had imbibed with Turk two nights earlier in name only.
As we stood off to the side, observing the scene, Miss Benedict informed me that Elias Schoonmaker was a Quaker from Malvern, one of the newly fashionable towns on the Main Line. Schoonmaker had amassed a sizable fortune in supplying lumber to fuel the building boom. He was considering an additional endowment to the university because he was envious of the other Quaker in Baltimore, even though the other Quaker had been dead for almost two decades.
“And Jonas Lachtmann?”
“Jonas is an extremely unappealing man. He is a speculator … quite pedestrian. He will make money in anything … land, grain, railroads … he has no interest in producing something tangible,