The Velvet Room by Zilpha Keatley Snyder Read Free Book Online Page A

shadow of your fingers through the china. They were so pleasant to touch that Robin rearranged them several times on the white tablecloth, handling them very carefully. Then, while Bridget held the teapot, Robin worked the handle of the pump that was right on the end of the wooden sink board. She had seen pumps before, but always outdoors, never right inside the house.
    There were several other things to do while the water heated. Bridget filled dishes at the kitchen side of the room, and Robin carried them to the table. There was a tiny glass tray with a matching sugar bowl and cream pitcher on it, a plate of the fat dark cookies, a pink bowl full of dark red strawberries, and a pale blue china teapot with a looping wreath of white around it. Robin moved a small vase of pansies from a window sill to the center of the table. Behind the table the casement window was partly open on the garden, and the morning sunlight added patterns of light and shadow.
    “Look!” Robin said. “It looks like a painting.”
    “So it does,” Bridget said. “You’ve arranged it very nicely. Now if you’ll pour the water, we’ll be almost ready.”
    “I like your house,” Robin said when they were both seated at the table. “It’s different. It’s like pictures I’ve seen of houses in other countries — England, or maybe Scotland.”
    “Yes, it would look something like that,” Bridget said, “but as it happens, it’s an Irish house. At least, it was built by Irish workmen.”
    “By Irish workmen? Did they build Palmeras House too?” Robin asked.
    “That’s quite a long story, and it goes back a long way. But I’ve heard a bit about it. You see, the present Mr. McCurdy’s grandfather was an Irishman who came to California during gold-rush days. He found some gold — not much, but enough to buy a fine horse and some fancy clothes and have just a little left over. He was tired of the hard work of mining gold, and he’d heard that land was cheap and life was easy in the South. So he decided to go to Los Angeles and buy some land. But on the way his horse went lame.”
    Bridget paused, and Robin said, to hurry her on, “I’ll bet that happened right here. It must have!”
    “You’re right. It happened right here at Las Palmeras, which was one of the largest ranchos in this part of the state. It was granted by the Governor of Mexico to the Montoya family in 1829. One wing of Palmeras House was built not too long after that.”
    “Oh,” Robin said, “I saw it. It’s made of adobe.”
    “That’s right. And that’s where Donovan McCurdy stayed while he waited for his horse’s hoof to heal. Only he never got to Los Angeles.”
    “Why didn’t he? Did something happen to him?”
    “Yes, it did, but nothing bad. You see, the Montoyas had a beautiful young daughter. Her name was Guadalupe María Francesca Montoya, but her family sometimes called her Bonita. And Donovan and Guadalupe fell in love.”
    “Did they get married?” Robin asked.
    “Indeed they did, and that’s why Donovan never got to Los Angeles. After they had been married a few years, Guadalupe’s parents died and all of Las Palmeras belonged to her and to Donovan. But even though Donovan loved California and Las Palmeras, at times he was homesick for Ireland. So when he decided to build a fine new house, he sent all the way to Ireland for carpenters and stonemasons. He planned his new home to look like a grand house that he had admired when he was a boy in Ireland. But because Guadalupe wanted to keep her old adobe home, it was left standing. So Palmeras House became part Spanish and part Irish, just like the McCurdy family.”
    “Did they have a big family?” Robin asked.
    “No, only two boys, Terrence and Francisco. Francisco was the present Mr. McCurdy’s father. And Terrence…” Bridget stopped to sip her tea, but when she put the cup down she didn’t go on. She sat quietly, her eyes blank and inward-looking. Finally she smiled and said,