“Oh, sure, go on up. But park in front of the carriage house instead of your usual spot. I’ll radio to let them know. It’s a little crazy up there today.”

“I appreciate it.”

They drove up the pebbled drive toward an imposing Federal mansion flanked by manicured gardens that sloped off in both directions. The scale of it stunned Gibson. He counted at least seven chimneys. It was a property that belonged in the English countryside, not in the middle of an American city. Another guard directed them off the main driveway, and Abe parked by a two-story garage that was bigger than Nicole’s house. Seven bays with white retractable doors spanned the length of the redbrick building. The center bay stood open—inside, a beautifully maintained vintage green Bentley.

Abe saw him admiring it. “That’s a ’52. It belonged to Ms. Dauplaise’s grandfather. He was ambassador to France under Roosevelt. Theodore, not Franklin.”

“And he lived here too?”

“The Dauplaises have lived here since the 1820s. There aren’t many older families in the city. The main house was designed by Charles Bulfinch and Alexandre Dauplaise after the War of 1812.”

“What does ‘Colline’ mean?” Gibson asked.

“ ‘The Small Hill.’ It’s the name Alexandre’s wife gave the house when she arrived from France. Of course, Ms. Dauplaise can tell you more. She’s an encyclopedia when it comes to the family history.”

“Who else lives here?”

“At the moment, it is just her and her niece. The party is for Catherine’s birthday.”

“Two people? That’s it?”

“Ms. Dauplaise has a son from a former marriage. He lives in Florida. Doesn’t visit often. She also has two living sisters. One lives in San Francisco. Another is a dean at the University of Pittsburgh medical school. Her youngest sister passed during childbirth: her niece’s mother. Calista adopted Catherine. Then there are about a hundred cousins of one kind or another that I can’t keep up with.”

They walked up to the house. Abe stopped them and turned to Gibson. He was struggling for how to put something.

“Calista . . . Ms. Dauplaise is a good woman.”

“But . . . ?”

“She’s hard. She doesn’t do disagreement well. She’s a woman who is accustomed to the sound of her own voice, if you follow me.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Let her hear it. If you want the job.”

Gibson did want the job. He needed to see Somerset, Pennsylvania. Needed it. He was afraid of what they might find there, but he had to know. If tap-dancing for Calista was the price of the ticket, then dance he would. His father had made a career of handling the landed gentry. Surely some of it must have rubbed off.