“To whom do I make the payment, to Mr. Everett or yourself?” I asked Skanner,
“I work for Mr. Everett,” he answered. “It has nothing to do with me. Work it out between you.”
Everett was smiling on me in such a disgustingly doting way I wanted to hit him with the screwdriver.
“We’ll just draw up a design for the new spindles and railing, then, and present it tomorrow for your approval,” Everett told me.
The “tomorrow” he had slipped in slyly; we more usually had a day off between his visits. I realized at once he meant to make it an excuse to take over our house entirely, to be running tame, like the beau he fancied himself.
“Take your time, sir,” I said coolly. “Do not feel it necessary to come to us every day, to oversee the job.”
The doting smile widened till I had to search for a word to describe it. “Fond” did not begin to do it justice. It was closer to possessive, and pleased with its possession.
He did not heed my hint, but returned the next day with a design I disliked intensely. I knew those dragon heads and claws would cost a fortune to have carved, to say nothing of looking very ugly and anachronistic in an Elizabethan house.
“They are much too fancy,” I told him, not wishing to say in so many words he was a fool with extremely poor taste. “Just a plain round spindle, with perhaps a few rings cut into the shaft of it, as most spindles you see in other homes have. I doubt it is Elizabethan, but it will not stand out like a sore thumb.”
He was back the next day with more sketches, each done by his own hand, colored in water color, signed in black ink, like Skanner’s sketches for Oakdene. A mansion rated such lavish treatment; surely a staircase did not, but it was intended as a compliment to me. The smile left no doubt on that score. The dragons and lotus blossoms had dwindled to snakes and apples, but still they were not rings cut into a plain spindle. “Like this,” I said impatiently, roughly sketching down my meaning.
“Happen you’re right,” he said, nodding his acquiescence. “There is no point trying to make anything of this little place, when all is said and done. And why should we, eh?”
“Why indeed? Let Menrod do it, if he wants something fancier. The spindles will do excellently for Mama and me.”
“That was not my meaning, Miss Harris,” he ventured boldly.
Three visits, three days hard running, had done something awful to his encroaching manners. “I think you know where there is a more gracious home waiting to receive you and your mother, whenever you feel so inclined.”
That was his proposal. I looked out the window and pretended not to understand his meaning. “The chiff-chaffs are back early this year,” I said. I arose and walked to the window to admire these dainty warblers. He was not two steps behind me, hardly one. He put a hand on my shoulder, causing me to flinch.
Before he could expand on his invitation to remove to Oakdene, our attention was diverted to the garden beneath the tree where rested the chiff-chaffs. There was a black cat slinking behind the bushes, and not far behind the cat was our female factotum, Mrs. Pudge, flapping a tea towel at the cat’s tail, and ordering him away from her birds. Her angry speech was inaudible through the closed window, but her appearance was comical enough to arrest Everett’s proposal in mid-flight.
Mrs. Pudge is a short woman, about the same height as my mother. She is very stout, with a fantastic topknot of sandish-gray hair. She wears voluminous aprons to protect her gown from the cooking jobs. She has bright blue eyes, an infant’s little button of a nose, and a chin about five inches long, which she now wagged at the old tomcat who comes on marauding missions from Menrod Manor, its home, a few miles north of us. I don’t know whether the cat has a name; to Mrs. Pudge it is known as “that devil cat.”
Mrs. Pudge has a genteel white female kitten, rapidly becoming mature, which is a stronger inducement to the tomcat than the birds ever were. This pet is called Lady, and is the only member of the household, including her spouse, on whom our housekeeper bestows the least affection. I believe it is her fear that the devil cat will molest Lady that causes her special rancor toward this animal, for really she is not all that fond of birds, though she calls them “her” birds, in a proprietary way, and tosses a handful of crumbs to them when she is in the mood, or when her pile of dried bread overflows its container.
“Foolish old malkin,” Mr. Everett said, unhappy at being interrupted in his mission.
I squirmed out past him to the safety of the chair closest the door, where I called to Mr. Pudge to send Mama in for approval of the stairway design. I was safe from Mr. Everett’s ardor till his next visit. After Mama approved the design, it was arranged that the three carpenters would come the next morning at nine to begin their job. Everett did not say he would accompany them, neither did I wish to show any interest in whether he came or not, so did not ask, but I had the most sinking apprehension that he would.
My mother and I have only been living in our present home for three years. It is a charming place, as seen from outside. It bears a strong resemblance to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, complete with timber and plaster facade, some ornamental brickwork on the sides, a thatched roof, and leaded windows. All this charm is much prettier to look at than to live in. Rodents are much attracted to the thatched roof. Rain does not evaporate so quickly from thatch as from slate, either.
It is damp, and the damp invades the upper story of the house, bringing with it a certain musty odor that is pervasive. The leaded windows, though they sparkle like diamonds, are not so large as windows ought to be. Insufficient light enters at every room. In winter, our rooms look strangely circular, the corners lost in shadows.
We have tried a dozen stunts to overcome the gloom of the interior. Our most effective remedy to date is to paint any nonvaluable piece of furniture light and bright. A pale lemon yellow was our choice. Many cabinets, tables, and the dining room chairs now stand out starkly against the age-dimmed paneling of the rooms, more starkly than I had hoped.
When my father died, three years ago, it was necessary for us to vacate the rectory to make way for the new incumbent. As Hettie had married Lord Peter some years before, Menrod took into his head to do something for us, and gave us the cottage at a nominal cost. The place is called Lady Anne’s cottage, and sits on one corner of his vast estate.
I was disappointed he had not let us have one of his other homes instead. There is a fine Dower House, but he has his dowager stepmother living there; there is also a very nice gatehouse, but the gatekeeper lives there. There are any number of tenant farms, all inhabited by tenant farmers. The only other one we might have come into was a gracious, modern red brick home just at the south edge of his estate, facing the Kennet River. He moved his summer mistress into it at the same time he gave us Lady Anne’s cottage.
I let on to Mama I am as happy as may be here, but in fact, I have had a plan of escape brewing for a year now, ever since we heard word from India of Lord Peter’s and Hettie’s death in a boating accident. That was a great tragedy for us. Hettie was my only sister, and my dearest friend. Though she had been in India already for seven years, I felt as close to her as ever. She was a marvelous correspondent. I can close my eyes and see her home there, know all the bizarre entertainments she enjoyed, her new friends, the Indian customs.
When she had her first child, she called her Gwendolyn, after me. Two years later, she had a son, named Ralph, after Peter’s father. It had been agreed between us sisters, though never revealed to Mama, that I would go to India to be with her for her next lying-in. She hinted at a surfeit of gentlemen looking for an English wife. I don’t know that I would have been happy
living
in India, but I would dearly have loved to see it. I have never been farther east than to London, forty miles away. Living on this small island, surrounded by water, I have never seen the sea. I had a holiday sixty miles west of here, at Bath, one summer when my mother was feeling poorly. An invalid mother is not the jolliest travelling companion.
My plan for escaping Lady Anne’s cottage centers around Hettie’s children. They are to be shipped home to England. I thought we would have seen them before now, but it was necessary to wait till some suitable person could be found to accompany them home, then to arrange passage, and so on.
If I were Menrod, I think I would have bestirred myself to go after them, as he enjoys trotting all around the globe, but his lordship did not see fit to do so. He was busy restocking his coverts at the time. When they do eventually return, it is my plan and ardent hope they might be placed with Mama and me. Lord Peter had some money, so a house will be adequately provided. I will be aunt, friend, companion, governess, nanny—whatever they require. It strikes me as a marvelous plan.
Mrs. Pudge once told me, in a fit of poetry induced by my having lost a beau, that God forgets to be gracious to some of his flock. I feel I am one of His forgotten ones. He showered the daughters’ share of beauty mostly on Hettie, forgetting to give me my dimples and curly hair. He had forgotten to give me either a fortune or a husband with one. What He gave me instead was a fairly short temper, and a reason to wonder why He had bothered to create me at all. Now the wisdom of His plan was revealed. This was why I had been born, to be here when the children needed me. I had a purpose, a need to fill at last.
The only remaining item to be settled is to discuss it with Menrod, who will be in charge of managing their monies. No doubt he will be greatly relieved we are willing to tend the children. As he likes to be free to dart to Scotland for the trout fishing, Brighton for the water, the Cotswold Hills for hunting, London for the Season, and the continent for chasing women, he will be happy to know the children have a good home.
The long-awaited letter telling of their arrival came the second day Everett and the carpenters were at the cottage working on the box stairs. To that time, they had made a colossal racket and mess, disassembling the wall panels. Everett has some pieces of wood he is drawing a design on for the bottom panel, to hide the rough step-ends. This occupies most of his time, and all of our dining room table, which is where he has elected to do his calculations and design. Mama and I now take all our meals in the breakfast parlor, which is no more than a corner nook by the window, overlooking the rose garden.
The letter was written by a Mr. Enberg, a friend of Peter’s, telling us he was leaving India with the children the next week, to return to England on the East India Company ship. The letter was three months old, which made it probable they would be arriving within the next week or so. It had taken Hettie eighty-five days to get there. He would take the children to London. He had also written to Menrod, who would presumably meet them there, as he had not asked us to.
After we had done rejoicing, our next business was to discover whether Menrod had received his letter and would be in London to meet the children. I had no idea where he might be in March. Late April would certainly see him in London for the Season, with darts to Newmarket and Epsom for the races. I had some inkling he might be at one of the smaller race meets, the hurdles at Dover or Warwick, perhaps, for he was a keen horseman.
“Let us go up to Dower House and speak to Lady Menrod,” I suggested. “She will know where he is.”
“Mr. Everett knows—he wrote him in London, did he not?”
“Indeed he did, but that was a whole week ago. I’ll speak to him, see if Menrod mentioned his plans. If he is not in London, we will have to go and meet the children, Mama.”
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, aghast at the idea. We live less than fifty miles from the city, but do not make the trip oftener than once every two or three years. We have not been there since my father’s death.
I went on the fly into the hallway to put the question to Mr. Everett. “I have no notion where he might be,” he answered.
“He did not mention how long he would be staying in London?”
“Why would he tell
me?
I have never met the man.”
“You wrote to him. In his reply, I thought he might have said something.”
“I had no reply to my letter. That looks as though he was not in the city at all, does it not?”
“Had no reply?” I asked, staring. “You said he approved of the alterations! You don’t mean you have gone tearing the house apart without his consent? He is as fussy as may be about the cottage, because of its age and authenticity. He wants it kept as a gem of Elizabethan architecture. He would not hear of having the thatch removed and shingles put on last year, when the mice were driving us to distraction.”
“I told him I was doing it. If he disliked it, he would have written.”
“How could he write, if he didn’t have your letter? Oh, Mr. Everett, you had better hammer those panels back on immediately.”
“I had them carted away to my place and burned, out back where the lads are clearing away all the bits and pieces from my own construction. I did not want to leave you with the mess.”
“You have saddled me with a greater mess than a few pieces of wood. I dread to think what Menrod will have to say about this.”
“Now, Miss Harris, don’t fret your pretty head. I will handle Lord Menrod if he cuts up stiff over getting a dandy new set of stairs at no cost.”
“I most particularly wanted to have him in a good mood, too,” I said.
This had to be explained to the inquisitive architect. He was displeased at the intelligence. “You mean to
live
with the youngsters, you say?” he asked, frowning.
“My own sister’s children—what could be more natural?”
“Did she leave them in your custody?”
“I am not at all sure those legal arrangements had been made. Both Peter and Hettie were so young, they were not thinking of their death yet, or planning for it. But there is no one else except Menrod and us. He will not want them.”
“I’d make him take them if I were you, Miss Harris.”