Firhaven and the Gentleman's Favor
Burlington Airport is all delayed departures and damp overcoats, a small republic of weary adults beneath fluorescent lamps. Your flight has arrived four hours late, and the December dark presses its blue hand against the high windows. Beyond the glass, ground crews pull their collars high while snow skates sideways across the runway. Above the gate, the departures board revises itself in patient blue squares.
The man three chairs away is having a private disaster with admirable manners. Broad-shouldered in a green wool coat, he holds a dead telephone toward a wall socket claimed by a cleaning machine, his carry-on marked FIRHAVEN TREE FARM. When he speaks, it is with the careful urgency of a man attempting not to trouble strangers. “If I cannot reach Owen, he will send the final fir order down the mountain road after the county closes it.” Snow smears the runway into a white field.
You set down your leather case. “My charger has a spare lead. You may use it.”
He turns, plainly surprised. “That is extremely kind.”
“It is only a charger.”
“At the present moment, it is a cavalry regiment.” His hand meets yours at the cable, and the narrow white scar across your right thumb catches the light. “Crane Quill,” he says. “I own Firhaven, though in December it occasionally owns me.” The charging symbol blooms green upon his screen.
“A paper conservator learns that alarm is poor equipment for a rescue,” you tell him. “Begin with the next thing that can be done.”
Crane considers this, then places the call. His foreman answers on the third attempt, sounding windblown and relieved. Crane gives instructions with brisk good humor: hold the delivery at the red barn, cover the bundled roots, send nobody down the mountain until daylight. When the call ends, he removes his hat and inclines his head to you as though you have saved more than a truckload of trees. The blue board shines above him like a winter sky.
He buys you coffee from a kiosk that has already abandoned any pretense of elegance. You learn that Firhaven lies north of town, that Crane returned today from a nursery auction in Pennsylvania, and that the farm’s final holiday delivery has acquired the importance of a state occasion. He learns that you are Hartley Voss, bound for your uncle Cyril’s Christmas-to-New-Year gathering, and that your profession consists largely of persuading old paper not to surrender its history. Steam rises from the paper cups in small white banners.
By the time your luggage reaches the belt, the rental counter is closed behind a metal grille. A clerk has left a card directing travelers to return in the morning, which seems an optimistic instruction beneath a weather advisory promising substantial snow. You stand before the shutter with your confirmation in hand and a suitcase at your knee, considering whether the airport benches might be improved by lowered expectations. The polished counter reflects your solitary figure like dark ice.
“Mr. Voss,” Crane says from behind you. “May Firhaven offer an alternative?”
His truck is a sensible green affair with a clean windshield and a brass terrier stationed upon the dashboard. The little creature has painted black eyes, four small wheels, and a key protruding from one flank. Crane winds it twice before he starts the engine; Mr. Wicket rolls forward an inch and produces a tinny bark. “He is chief navigator,” Crane explains, entirely serious. The terrier’s red enamel collar glints beside the defroster.
The road north is narrowed by snowbanks, and Crane drives with the patient competence of a man accustomed to weather having opinions. Your telephone, revived by the charger, rings just beyond the airport lights. Cyril Voss appears upon the screen.
Before answering, you say, “I must confess an inconvenience.”
Crane keeps his attention on the road. “That sounds grave.”
“In October, I told my uncle I would bring a boyfriend for the holiday.” You fold the telephone between both hands. “There was no boyfriend. I merely wished to avoid four days of being introduced to every eligible man within fifty miles.”
Crane’s mouth curves. “You invented one.”
“I did. I neglected to provide a name, which now seems either prudent or cowardly.”
The telephone rings again, bright and insistent in the cab. Mr. Wicket waits at attention upon his brass wheels.
“You need not answer,” Crane says.
“I must. Cyril was a magistrate for thirty years. He can detect evasion through masonry.”
“Would it assist matters if you introduced me?”
You look at him. He does not press; he merely drives on through the snowy dark, one gloved hand secure upon the wheel. “Only if you are certain.”
“I am certain that you rescued Firhaven with a charger and superior composure,” he says. “Let me repay the courtesy.”
You answer Cyril. Your uncle’s voice arrives warm and formal through the speakers. “Hartley, my dear fellow. Have you and your gentleman survived the air?”
“Only just,” you say. “Cyril, this is Crane Quill.”
Crane says, “Good evening, sir. Hartley has been of great service to me already.”
“A promising beginning,” Cyril replies. “Bring him safely to Firhaven. The Twelve Courtesies may commence in the morning.”
When the call ends, Crane glances toward you at last. “Four days,” he says. “I can be your date for four days, if that is what you want.”
You look past him to the road climbing between black pines and falling snow. “All right,” you say. “Four days.”
Mr. Wicket tilts his painted head, as though awaiting your verdict.
Firhaven appears beyond a turn in the road: a white boardinghouse with dark green shutters, a red barn beyond it, and ranks of young firs shouldering snow beneath the lamps. Crane guides his truck through the gate with care, while Mr. Wicket gives one metallic bark from the dashboard, as though announcing a carriage at a country house. The windows offer amber squares against the weather, a harbor set among black trees.
Your uncle opens the front door before either of you reaches it. Cyril Voss is sixty-four, straight-backed and silver-haired, in a burgundy dressing gown that makes the snow upon his shoulders seem a discourtesy. He takes Crane’s hand and studies him with a welcome so polished it becomes an examination. “Mr. Quill. Hartley tells me you saved him from an airport bench.”
“Mr. Voss saved me first,” Crane says. “I merely own a truck.”
“A useful qualification in Vermont.” Cyril turns to you. “Come in, both of you. We have delayed supper for civilization.” Behind him, the hall gleams with polished wood, holly, and the brass shine of a small dog on wheels.
Every guest in the house is a grown man: your cousins, your uncle’s old law partner, two married friends who have arrived without their husbands, and several Voss relations whose branches in the family tree have long required notes. They call greetings from the parlor, where boots steam near the hearth and cards are stacked upon a side table. Crane removes his coat and gives each man the same steady attention he gave the road, as though a dozen strangers are merely another practical task before supper.
Cyril directs you both into the library, where the 1926 courtesy ledger rests open beside a fountain pen. Its pages are browned at the edges, its red ribbon worn almost pale. “The Twelve Courtesies,” he says to Crane, “are not a contest, despite what my nephews claim. Each guest offers a kindness, records one received, and attempts not to behave like a scoundrel before New Year’s Day.”
“I shall do my best,” Crane replies.
“That is the customary promise.” Cyril writes Crane Quill beneath your name in a hand fit for a court order. “A gentleman who arrives in a blizzard has already begun with favorable evidence.” The fresh ink lies dark upon the old page.
By late morning, you stand beside Crane in the tree-trimming room, where cedar garlands frame the windows and several fresh-cut firs await ornaments. You have agreed upon three harmless facts: you met at a preservation benefit in Philadelphia, Crane admired your work before he understood it, and you have been writing one another since October. When your cousin Bastian asks how Crane learned to distinguish vellum from ordinary paper, Crane begins, “Hartley explained it to me over dinner, though I confess I was distracted by—”
His telephone rings. Owen’s face appears upon the screen, red-cheeked beneath a wool cap, with the barn doors behind him. Crane apologizes to Bastian and answers at once. “The delivery is covered? Good. Keep the roots indoors, and tell Martin he is not driving that road for any prince in Europe.” Outside, snow gathers upon the fir branches like white lace.
You resume your rehearsal near the ornament boxes. Crane asks whether your invented first dinner involved wine, tea, or a meal you might plausibly have forgotten to eat while discussing paper fibers. Before you can answer, someone knocks sharply. Bastian stands in the doorway wearing one mitten and a grave expression.