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So eloquent would I wax before this spectacle, I could sometimes exact from Peter promises of rooms for myself in one of the towers, and a private vineyard hard by the postern gate, before he remembered to protest that Mother was all the baroness he craved, our poor house the only castle. I could not of course propose outright that in that case he make over his inheritance to me; but I would go to sleep confident that Peter recognized my qualifications for the baronetcy and would abdicate in my favor when the time came.

The egg from which this vision hatched — bought by Uncle Konrad for Aunt Rosa at the Oberammergau Passion Play in 1910—lay in permanent exhibition between two of Uncle Wilhelm’s cupids on the mantelpiece of our Good Parlor, which in the old fashion was opened only for holidays, funerals, and company. Peter no less than myself deemed it worthwhile as a boy to behave himself long enough on such occasions to be rewarded with a glass of Grandfather’s wine and a view into that egg, but for years I assumed that its magical interior, like Wilhelm’s student statuary, was no more than a curiosity to him. Not until he was seventeen, and I fifteen, did I learn otherwise.

Uncle Konrad, upon his death in 1941, left in trust for each of his nephews two thousand dollars, into which we were to come upon our graduation from Dorset High. Mine was earmarked already by the family for my further education. Peter, I believe, was expected to invest his in the uncertain fortunes of Mensch Masonry Contractors, where like Uncle Karl he’d worked as an apprentice every spare moment of his youth. Father and Karl spoke warmly, as Peter’s graduation day approached, of his good fortune in being able to “do something” for the business at last — as though his having done a journeyman mason’s work at a boy’s wage for the two years past were not itself a baronial contribution.

“Bread cast upon the waters,” Hector would say to the family in general, sniffing and arching his brows. “Famous percentage yield. Throw in a slice, fish out a loaf.”

“Well, he doesn’t have to put it in the company,” Mother declared. She wore her housecoat the day long, as if she understood the word to mean a coat for keeping house in. The years had begun to frizz her hair, spoil her teeth, lower her jowls, undo her breasts, pot her belly: the sight of her holding court from her couch, cigarette between her lips and coffee cup in hand, did not move one in the same way as formerly. “It’s his money.”

“Who said it wasn’t? Let him put plumbing in the house for you.”

That was not what she meant, Mother replied. But it was. Hector’s sole concession to modernity, since buying out Karl’s and Rosa’s shares of the Menschhaus in 1936, was a cold-water tap let into the kitchen sink. It was still pitchers and basins on marble washstands in all the bedrooms, and as we had no heat either beyond the kitchen and parlor stoves, there’d be ice on those pitchers on winter mornings. We were, moreover, the only family in East Dorset who still used the privy built into the row of whitewashed sheds behind our summer kitchen. The prospect there was not unlovely: a walk of mossy bricks led under the grape and wisteria arbors which screened the sheds. But it was so shocking cold in winter, so beloved of wasps and bees in summer, that I remained more or less constipated until college.

Yet however legitimate her yen for domestic convenience, I felt Andrea had no more right than Hector to influence Peter’s choice, and vigorously so argued. The very prudence of their resolve as to my inheritance (which resolve Peter had affirmed so stoutly that I couldn’t disagree) increased my jealousy for the independence of his, and led me by some logic to feel it should be spent imprudently. Not “thrown away,” mind, in the evanescent joys of riotous living, nor yet exchanged for objects of useless beauty: the notion of the spree was alien to our Protestant consciences, and I cannot imagine Hector or even the unknown Wilhelm, for example, paying money for a piece of art. My fancy equated carefree expenditure with the purchase of hard goods, the equipment of pleasure: if Peter hesitated to commit himself, I assumed his problem to be the choice between, say, a red Ford roadster, a racing sailboat, a five-inch reflecting telescope.

“He doesn’t have to spend it on the family at all,” I would declare. “He can do anything he wants with it.”

“Indeed he may; indeed he may.” Hector’s nose itched when he was opposed; he would massage it with left thumb and forefinger. “Let him buy a nice Hampton sailboat. When the company goes into receivership, we’ll all go sailing.”