Nooks & Crannies (3 page)

Bustling over to an armchair imprinted with her substantial seat impression, Mrs. Crum reached over the side and came up waving the newspaper with her free hand. “It's right in here, darling. Six envelopes have been sent out across London. It's supposed to be some sort of secret, but of course someone's spilled it to the papers. It's from the Countess of Windermere, Camilla DeMoss, the richest philanthropist in England! King Edward himself gave her a title, you know.” Perspiring with excitement, Mrs. Crum tossed the paper toward her husband, striking Tabitha squarely on the nose.

All blood drained from Mr. Crum's already pasty face. “Camilla DeMoss? Countess of where?” He ignored the newspaper and Tabitha's face rubbing, snatching the invitation from his wife with sweaty urgency and reading it aloud:

To the Parents of Miss Crum:

Miss Tabitha Crum is hereby invited to a weekend at the estate of Camilla Lenore DeMoss, Countess of Windermere, to commence Friday, November 30. Transportation to Hollingsworth Hall, Windermere, Lake District, will be provided from the Hotel McAvoy, Kirby, at three o'clock in the afternoon. Formal attire is requested, but not mandatory. Enclosed are funds for train fare and any other expense you may encounter.

Parents are invited to dinner and a tour of Hollingsworth Hall on Friday and will then take lodging at nearby Clavendor Cottage. They will be called to attend luncheon on Sunday. No response is required, as all children/parents are fully expected to attend. I look forward to your presence and trust that it will be a profitable weekend for all. Your discretion is advised, assumed, and appreciated.

Camilla Lenore DeMoss, Countess of Windermere

“Profitable? Profitable?” Mr. Crum's lips quivered as he mouthed the second-to-last line to himself. His fingers drummed against his chin, as though counting imaginary bills. “Gives money away like candy, she does. What can it mean?” He whirled to face his daughter. “How do you know her?” he demanded, advancing toward Tabitha, shaking the note with such intensity that she stumbled backward, her thin frame slamming into the dresser.

“For God's sake, give her some space,” Mrs. Crum said. “She'll break the dresser. And you're being ridiculous. She hasn't got any friends, let alone countess connections.” Her eyes began to glaze over with the promise of high society. “Oh, Mortimer, Hollingsworth Hall! Imagine, me, with a countess! Perhaps . . . perhaps I can pick her brain on how to get a title.” Mrs. Crum nibbled her upper lip and gazed at the wall, seeing extravagant parties and important people and illustrious power. “Agatha Crum,
Countess of London
. Agatha Crum,
Countess of Rome
. Agatha Crum,
Countess of Paris, all other large cities, and the seacoast of Spain
.”

Tabitha picked up the envelope and took out a thin wad of bank notes. “I suppose I'll need a proper dress, if I'm to go,” she said softly.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Crum sneered, snatching the bills and spreading them out. “It says ‘formal attire not mandatory.' Right there, it says. You'll wear what you have. The money will be for our trouble. Besides,” he said with a gleam in his flinty eyes, “it may go better for you if she thinks we're fairly poor.”

“I thought we
were
fairly poor,” Tabitha said. “And that's why I sleep in the attic.”

“Ignorant, that's what you are.” Mrs. Crum sniffed. “We're not poor. You sleep in the attic because it keeps you submissive and humble, and Mrs. Lanolin-Griffiths says humility and a submissive nature are what top bachelors look for in a wife. Once again,
you're welcome
. Now go pack. We don't have luggage for you, just use a pillowcase or something. No, wait. That might look callous on our part.” Pursing her lips tightly, Mrs. Crum surveyed the open closet. “There's an old carpetbag buried in there somewhere, I believe. Mortimer, it's that dreadful brown-and-yellow disaster you bought for me years ago.”

Mr. Crum grunted. “You were right, darling. Ugly as a shaved cat. Foul enough to be an excellent match for Tabitha.”

“Yes, that's the one.” Mrs. Crum smoothed her thin, gray-brown hair. “Mortimer, we shall need to inquire about the train immediately. Let's stay at the Hotel McAvoy this evening.” She nodded at the bills in Mr. Crum's hands. “After all, we've got the money for it.”

Tabitha frowned and tapped at the back of her neck four times.
Stop squirming, please,
she told Pemberley. “But the invitation says it's to start tomorrow afternoon. Won't tomorrow morning be quite early enough to leave?”

“Nobody wants your opinion on anything,” Mr. Crum snapped. “Your mother's right. We'll take the night train north this evening. We can delay our own little trip, I daresay.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “Nothing will be seen as amiss until Monday. Perhaps,” he said, taking Mrs. Crum's hand, “perhaps we're finally due for a windfall.”

“Oh, Mortimer! Do you really think so?”

He pounded the dresser twice, rattling the empty drawers. “I don't see why not! We've practically been invited to see royalty. And there's no sense in staying here when there's a game afoot. Best to get a jump on the competition. Now, if I could only learn what her angle is.” Mr. Crum stared at the ceiling, neck tilted as though he was searching for the Countess's angle among the cracks. Then he stalked out the bedroom door, reopening it quickly. “And Agatha, dear,” he called to his wife, “we'd better bring the
papers
.” He tapped the side of his nose several times. “Don't want to leave any loose ends about if we don't come back to the house. Just shove them anywhere.” He pounded down the steps.

Mrs. Crum hastily formed a single stack of the scattered papers, which she rolled and shoved deeply into the nearest place of confinement, which happened to be the carpetbag that Tabitha would be using. “Hurry up, go gather your things or we'll leave without you. You might as well take everything you have, as we'll be sending you to the Home right after the weekend.”

Pausing to regrip the carpetbag's handle, Tabitha slipped the fallen newspaper under her free arm and left her parents' room, tucking Mr. Crum's interesting words about “loose ends” and things being “seen as amiss” into a corner of her mind.

Her crawl space was an odd assembly of slanting ceilings, an uneven floor, and one tiny square window. The only luxury present was half an inch of honey candle perched on a jam jar lid next to Tabitha's sleeping mattress, which was made of old sofa padding. The candle flame offered no warmth but lent a lingering scent of sweetness to her personal area that saved it from feeling unbearably cold in spirit.

Tabitha lifted Pemberley to the window ledge and set him beside a small pile of paper scraps and chewed pencils. He scampered to his bed, a cleansed tin of Pemberley's Miracle Mustache Tonic that she'd plucked from Mr. Crum's trash long ago.

“So it appears we've been dropped, my dear sir,” she told the mouse. “We are on our own. Or will be, after this weekend.”

Pemberley paused in his search for spare nibbles and squeaked twice.

“Good riddance, you say? Oh, Pemberley, you're awful.” Waving an index finger in his small face, she gave him a corner of cracker that she'd tucked into her sock at lunchtime. “But I don't blame you one bit. Not after what happened to your dear mum and brothers. Or sisters. Your family, that is. But I'm your family now, so never fear.” She dropped a delicate kiss on his mousy back. “You, sir, are the Timothy Tibbs to my Inspector Pensive. We shall be just fine together for always.”

The tiny mouse had shown up in the attic corner one year before, nestled among several brothers (or sisters, Tabitha wasn't sure which) where the wooden floor planks had eroded to form a shallow place. They were all squeaking from painfully shrunken stomachs. When no mother mouse came to remedy the problem, Tabitha suspected that Mr. Crum's latest victim in the kitchen trap was the parent of the little ones.

Despite her best efforts, all but one of the mice died within two days. Pemberley clung stubbornly to life. He had been so tiny that she fed him milk with a small paintbrush she swiped from St. John's art supply closet. He was smart enough that Tabitha was able to teach him simple tricks with old cheese and cracker ends, and soon Pemberley could twirl, hide, beg, and even hug her thumb on command, though he often did that of his own volition. A book she'd fetched from the public library stated that a healthy mouse could live up to three years. One very lucky fellow had lived to be seven.

Tabitha had hoped that Pemberley would remain in the world until she'd grown enough to leave her parents. And now, with the news of her move to Augustus Home, he had done just that. “I'll pack quickly, Pemberley,” she told him, “and then we'll leave these cozy quarters for a year.”

It was not cozy quarters in the attic, but she would never share that with Pemberley. He was a fragile fellow, having experienced loss so early in life. She hated to burden him with unproductive thoughts, including her suspicion that they might be spending quite a bit longer than a year in Augustus Home.

Tabitha folded a secondhand sweater that most likely had belonged to a boy and browsed through the rest of her clothing, making a pile of things to take with her. It was a small pile. “What else shall we take? Ah, yes.” She added knitting needles attached to a skein of yarn, a partial scarf, and the one Inspector Pensive novel she owned.

It was only the previous summer that she'd discovered the Inspector, a serendipitous introduction made while spending glorious days at the library. Mr. and Mrs. Crum didn't keep track of school holidays, and Tabitha had simply continued leaving the house at eight and returning at four, despite the fact that students had been given a lengthy break from classes. She'd been allowed to keep a rather banged-up copy of
The Case of the Duplicitous Duke's Doorway
after dusting and keeping the shelves tidy for several weeks.

She rubbed her new bittern pin, kissed it on the beak, and added it to the carpet bag. “Now, what will become of you, Miss Crum?” she asked herself.

Four insistent bangs sounded on the attic door. “Get down here
now
and take out the garbage. I won't leave the house smelling filthy!”

“Fetching refuse.” She sighed. “That's what's to become of me for the moment. Coming, Mum!” she called. Gently pressing Pemberley back underneath her collar, Tabitha climbed down the attic ladder to fetch the rubbish. Even pieces of garbage had a home, she observed. A place they belonged with other thrown-away bits.

Tabitha had no place at all.

“None of that, Pemberley,” she whispered. “We're lucky to be having a bit of an adventure before getting thrown to the wolves, and I won't have us pitying ourselves. I simply won't have it.” And she meant it. If there was one thing that kept Tabitha Crum going during the days and brought her comfort throughout nights, it was a flicker of hope that she kept burning despite her misfortunes. It was a small hope, really.

It was the hope that life could and deserved to be better for her. It was a hope that one day, wherever that version of her life was, it would present itself in a way that allowed her to leap and cling and claim it so adamantly that it could never let her go or push her away.

“Come now, Pemberley,” she added, finishing the round of bins and wiping a curl of potato peeling from her leg, “you're so busy dwelling on this orphanage business that you've forgotten about the mystery ahead! As Father said, perhaps a game is afoot. And I have quite as much curiosity about these other children as I do about the countess herself.”

Once again she wondered what she and Barnaby Trundle could possibly have in common that would warrant twin invitations to Hollingsworth Hall. Perhaps Barnaby was right. Perhaps it was all a big mistake.

But she rather hoped not.