April swept through the Hudson Highlands with a sharp, invigorating rain that washed the last stubborn gray frost from the granite crevices above Stony Point. By late morning, the squall had broken into patches of pale turquoise sky, casting brilliant shafts of light across the swelling river. Along the estate’s lower stone pathways, red maple buds were opening into delicate crimson clusters, filling the damp air with the clean, tannic scent of wet bark and turning earth.
Inside the glass-roofed conservatory of the secondary archive wing, climate controls maintained an even, quiet warmth. The tall zinc cataloging tables were organized with mathematical precision, holding diplomatic crates recently cleared by customs in Newark.
I stood near the central display alcove, wearing a fine-knit
