8
Charlotte stared in total awe at the collection of carousel horses in the basement. Tariq Asenguard was a serious collector. Most were European, but like the carousel on his patio, there were two other American ones.
“Museums don’t have such beautiful works,” she whispered reverently. “Tariq, where did you get these? Ricard went his entire life looking for just one of the original carved horses used for training noblemen in the art of ring spearing during tournaments, and you have four of them.”
“I have always been interested in carousel horses, the origins and how they evolved. The first carousels were necessarily different from the ones today, but no less intriguing and fun, maybe even more so.”
Tariq sounded far away, as if he were back in time with the French some three hundred years earlier. Charlotte turned to look at his face. Clearly he had thought a lot about what had transpired. He looked as if he was remembering rather than thinking about what it would have been like.
“In the early eleven hundreds, the Turks and Arabs played a game, although they weren’t really messing around. They were deadly serious about their game. The Italians and Spaniards referred to the game as ‘little war’ and that’s where the term carosella came from. The carousel was born right there, but no one had a clue how it would evolve, or even that women and children would find great enjoyment on it. I love that the carousel came about with the idea of training men for warfare and ended up being something special for everyone to enjoy and relax around,” Tariq said.
Charlotte had always loved that fact as well. She’d been drawn to the history of the carousel just as Tariq was. They had that in common. She loved the individual artwork on the carved wooden horses. The detail, as if the artist had taken such care to make each piece something special even knowing the nobleman training on it might not ever notice. The carvers were the artists, men exposing small bits of their souls while they worked.
“I love that you know that,” Charlotte admitted. “They didn’t have the tools to work with back then that we do now, but still, they were meticulous in their work. Ricard had a theory that the earliest horses were carved by a single man. Two at the most. The horses were different, but the technique, the care and attention to detail, was so perfect that he doubted more than one man would have that ability.”
“I would have liked to have met Ricard Beaudet. I always looked forward to our correspondence. I don’t care to talk on the phone, so he obliged me by writing. I felt as if we had a lot in common.” He looked down at her. “He told me about you. He was very proud of you and the work you did. He said the pupil had exceeded the master in skill.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Ricard was very modest, but he was the best in the world. If you wanted your carousel restored right, to the absolute glory it once had, you asked for him.”
“Which is exactly why I did. His reputation was impeccable.”
Charlotte stepped down into the sunken room. The basement extended throughout the length of the house. Although it was one large room, there were several half walls that made the space appear to be a giant maze. Carousel horses of every era dominated the room, but the half walls separated them by age. There was a work space with all kinds of tools and paints. Carving tools. Old paints made from leaves and flowers. Everything anyone loving carousels could possibly want or use.
Charlotte looked over her shoulder at Tariq. “You carve.”
He shrugged. “I find it satisfies something in me I can’t define. There’s a kind of peace in carving. The wood shavings curling, the block of wood taking shape, the detail. I feel as though I can take an inanimate piece of wood and bring it to life. I like it.” He sent her a self-deprecating grin. “I can’t say I’m all that good at it, so don’t examine mine too closely. But I like carving.”
Charlotte loved the expression on his face. He was so handsome with his long, thick, very dark hair and his gemlike blue eyes. Gorgeous. All man. Sophisticated. Yet he would sit down in his basement, using his hands to create something beautiful. He really loved the carousels just as she did; she could hear it in his voice. She liked being able to breathe life back into them, and clearly he liked creating the life in them.
“I name them,” he blurted out, admitting something he clearly thought was crazy. “The older ones. I like to name them.”
“Because they seem real,” she murmured. “That’s beautiful.”
“It’s insane. I don’t let the children down here,” he said, suddenly all business.
She was fairly certain he was embarrassed by his admission, but it endeared him to her even more.
“There are too many ways they could hurt themselves. My tools, the horses themselves. The oldest are still wrapped.” He indicated the section closest to his workstation. “I bought those from a collector’s estate recently. They’re the ones I wrote to Ricard about. The collector, Paul Emery, had pictures of them, and some of the wood has deteriorated as well as the original paint. Paul bought the horses and chariots for his daughter. He apparently hung the four horses up on his porch for her and her friends to use. His wife died in a car accident right after his little girl was born, and he claimed he spoiled his daughter as much as possible.”
Charlotte could see the four bundles wrapped carefully in Bubble Wrap. Just behind them were four larger ones she was certain were the chariots. She couldn’t wait to open the Bubble Wrap to see them. The pictures indicated they were some of the oldest carousel horses in existence.
“His little girl became ill shortly after he bought the horses for her and eventually she died. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Emery was dying when I spoke to him about the horses. He had insisted any potential buyer speak to him before the transaction was complete. He believed there was some kind of curse on the horses. He explained that over the last few centuries, anyone owning the horses and using them eventually succumbed to some unknown disease. He wanted to make me aware of the curse before I purchased them. He had been given the warning and it went unheeded as, apparently, it had for all the collectors before him.”
She turned and faced him, fascinated. “He died?”
“Yes, of the same illness as his daughter. As had the collectors before him and their families. Apparently anyone who has owned those horses died of an unknown withering disease, or…” He paused, watching her face. “Or the owner was murdered in the same manner as your brother and Ricard Beaudet.”