The bed was set between two large paneled windows, which were draped in light-blue pleated antique silk curtains. The room had a polished hardwood floor, but there was a thick light-gray wool rug beside the bed.

“The bed is a little oversized for a bachelor,” he said, “but we Foxworths have our superstitions.”

“And what is this one?”

“Since I’ve slept in this bed so long, the babies made in it will inherit our best features and health. Looks like a wasted pillow right now.” He leaned closer to whisper, “But I alternate nights with each.”

He laughed at my expression of surprise. Was he serious?

There was a large mirror to our left, and beside it was a dressing table of cherrywood. Everything on it was neatly organized.

Beside the dressing table was a large dresser and what looked like a very large closet next to that. There was one blue cut-velvet chair oddly facing the bed as if someone sat there to watch him sleep, perhaps watching something else as well. On the right were another closet and another small dresser. The room had a fireplace, which was now unlit.

“Where do your few servants sleep?”

“Their quarters are above the carriage garages in the rear.”

“You called your maid ‘Mrs.’ Is her husband here as well?”

“I’m afraid not. He died of smallpox seven years ago. They had no children, which might be a blessing. He wasn’t very good-looking, either.”

He smiled widely. I poked him.

“You are a terrible man, Garland Foxworth. Do you know that?”

“I’ve been told so on occasion, even by my own mother,” he said, laughing. “Shall we continue? There is another bedroom to show you. It’s never really been used. My mother had the bed made on a whim, according to my father, and after it had been constructed, she was embarrassed to use it. It is something special.”

He paused at the closed door.

“You could count on the fingers of one hand how many people I’ve shown this room, but somehow, for some reason I can’t explain at the moment, I think you will appreciate it as much as my mother hoped she would. She was a little too . . . shy, perhaps,” he added, and opened the door.

At the center of the room on a dais was a bed with the sleek ivory head of a swan, turned in profile, looking like swans do when they are just about to plunge their heads under the ruffled underside of a lifted wing. I’m not sure if I gasped or not, but I had never seen anything like it. Although Garland didn’t move forward, standing back almost as if he was afraid to enter any farther, I did.