Qwilleran had an idea, and he was in a hurry to put it into action. Back at the barn, he inscribed a copy of
It was not long before the phone rang, and a sweet, cultivated voice said, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is Edythe Carroll. We have never met, and I am deeply touched that you should send me this splendid book. The account of the pioneer doctors is so true! It might have been handed down from Dr. Erasmus!”
For one who was considered reticent and aloof, Mrs. Carroll was remarkably talkative. Qwilleran murmured the right things.
“And you mentioned in your note, Mr. Qwilleran, that you have an idea you wish to discuss. Would you do me the honor of taking tea with me tomorrow?”
Qwilleran trimmed his moustache, dressed properly for tea with Dr. Wendell’s widow, and drove to the retirement village.
She received him graciously in an apartment that was clearly furnished with her own heirlooms. She had white hair, attractively styled for her age, and she wore a lavender silk dress and a little color on her cheeks.
“Do you like antiques?” she asked as she ushered Qwilleran into the small sitting room.
“I admire the design and fine woods of individual pieces,” he replied frankly, “but most people crowd too many into a given space. You handle them with great taste.”
“Thank you,” she said with obvious delight. “My late husband disliked clutter, too.”
He had caught a glimpse, as he passed a china cabinet, of a number of small decorated china objects, like saltcellars. On second glance, they proved to be miniature shoes.
He stopped and said, “This is a remarkable collection! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“Miniature porcelain shoes are quite collectible,” she said, “and my husband and I had a romantic interest in collecting, but I won’t bore you with that! Come and sit at the tea table, and I’ll bring the tea.”
When she appeared at the kitchen door with a loaded tray, Qwilleran jumped up and carried it to the table. Older women always liked Qwilleran’s courtly manners, which he had learned “at his mother’s knee,” he liked to say. He knew very well they would make a positive impression on Lish’s grandmother.
They sat at a Queen Anne tea table, and Mrs. Carroll poured tea into thin porcelain cups. “This is Darjeeling,” she said, “best with a little warm milk.” She raised the silver cream pitcher tentatively.
He said, “Please.”
At that point Qwilleran inquired, “Do you feel inclined to tell me the romantic story about your collection of shoes? I assure you I would never be bored.”
“You promise?” she cried, eager to tell all. “When I was a young woman, I attended the Lockmaster Academy and studied ballet. One of our recitals was attended by a group of young men, including Dr. Wendell Carroll, who was specializing in foot surgery. He said later that he fell in love with my tiny feet. We were eventually married and started a collection of miniature shoes. Whenever Dell returned from a medical conference in Chicago or another big city, he’d burst into the house shouting:
She cast a wistful glance at the china cabinet. They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment or two. Then Qwilleran asked, “Did you ever know a teacher named Agatha Burns? She’s a hundred years old, and I’m writing a column about her.”
“Yes, indeed! She was an inspiration! She even encouraged me to write poems in Latin, and one of them won a prize! Fifteen dollars! I bought a typewriter with it—secondhand manual. I still have it! I suppose you use a computer.”
“No, I use a vintage electric typewriter that reads my mind and knows what key I’m going to press next. But there’s nothing like an old manual with its clattering keys, loud bells, and the authoritative thump when the carriage returns.”
She appreciated the humor and swayed with mirth.
“May I call you Edythe? It’s a name with a pleasant sound.”
“Please do,” she said.
“Edythe, have you ever thought of presenting Mount Vernon to the community as a memorial to the three Carroll doctors—together with your exquisite antiques—to be admired and revered as a museum?”
Tears welled into her eyes, and she dabbed them with a handkerchief—a real one, with lace trimming. “Oh, I don’t know what to say!” she cried. “I’m overcome with emotion at your kind suggestion. You don’t know what it would mean to me, Mr. Qwilleran.”
“Please call me Qwill,” he said in the mellifluous voice that had worked miracles in the past. “I’m not aware of your plans for the house, but whatever they are, I wish you would consider honoring three generations of medical men in this way.
