"Yes, ma'am."
"And I bet you're all excited about attending the school of drama. What a wonderful opportunity. I never would have thought my sister capable of such an enormous altruistic act. I know she is involved in this charity and that, but becoming someone's guardian so late in life is quite a responsibility?'
She tilted her head a bit to look at me.
"I wonder from where she got this sudden, new motherly impulse? What have you done to charm my sister so?" she asked. There was a strange note of suspicion in her voice as her eyes widened with the question.
"I don't know," I said. "Mrs. Hudson has been very kind. It's as simple as that."
"Really? How interesting," she continued, still gazing at me with those scrutinizing eyes. "How are my nieces?" she followed._
"Fine, I guess. I don't see all that much of them," I added quickly. I felt my voice shaking. I hadn't expected to be put under such a crossexamination so quickly.
"Victoria is still not romantically involved with anyone?'
"I wouldn't know, ma'am."
"She's been around often enough, hasn 't she?"
"Yes, but not that often," I said.
"Hmm." She nodded slowly and then smiled. "I bet you're ravishingly hungry. We can stop along the way and get you some warm food, if you like. I know a nice new French restaurant that's not far. Do you like French food, dear?"
"I haven't eaten all that much of it," I said.
"Oh?"
"I'm really not that hungry," I said. "I ate enough on the plane. I'm okay!'
I wanted to be polite and look at her when she spoke, but I wanted to look out the window, too. Where were the places I had read about in my history books? The Tower of London, Big Ben, Parliament, the National Gallery?
"Just yesterday," she said, "at tea at Lady Bishop's, I told everyone I was getting an au pair from America. It's usually just the opposite," she bragged with a short laugh.
"Excuse me? Au pair?"
"A foreign girl exchanging housework for room and board," she explained.
"Oh." How strange it was to consider myself a foreign girl, but that's exactly who I am here, I thought.
"When we arrive at Endfield Place, I'll have Mary Margaret show you to your sleeping quarters, and then you'll meet Mrs. Chester, our cook. Boggs will describe your duties to you, however. My husband has made Boggs the staff manager.
"What do you think of my new hairstyle? It's the rage in Paris. See how this side looks like it's floating?" She patted the side of her hair softly.
"How old are you again?" she asked, before I could say anything.
"I'm eighteen," I said, smiling to myself at the way she flitted from topic to topic. She reminded me of a hummingbird, buzzing over one flower and then rushing off to the next. It was as if she was afraid of being tied down for even a moment. She was either someone pursued or someone in pursuit, I thought and wondered ill would ever discover which it was.
"Eighteen. Yes, it seems like yesterday," she said wistfully. "Oh, I do hope you don't smoke," she said with a firm face of warning. "Richard won't permit anyone to light a fag in our home and he can smell it a mile away, so don't try to sneak one?'
"Fag?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand. What's a fag?" I asked.
"Oh, it's what you Americans call a cigarette," she said, laughing. "I always forget whom I'm speaking to."
"Aren't you still an American?" I asked.
"Goodness, no. Richard wouldn't tolerate the idea." She gazed out the window and then turned back to me. "You're so lucky. We're having a week without showers, if you believe what you hear on the telly."
"Telly?"
"The televison set, of course. Richard says Americans can't live a day without the telly. I don't suppose you're hooked on one of those dreadful soap things, are you?"
"Oh. Television. No, ma'am, I'm not," I said.
"Good. Just look there," she said pointing to a woman pushing a shopping cart full of cans and bottles. "I don't know what this country is coming to these days. I see more and more aluminum miners foraging for recyclables to get food. Dreadful."
"Homeless people," I said looking back at the woman with the cart. "It's the same back in the States."
"Richard just rages and rages about them. He thinks the government should get them off the streets. Just the other day, he met with the P.M., you know, and gave him a bloody what for."
"Is that the Prime Minister of England?"
"Of course, dear. NowI'll stop talking and you tell me about yourself. Pretend you're telling the story of your life. Go on. Where were you born?" she asked, resting her arms on her lap and sitting back as if I was about to tell her a fairy tale.
I started, describing my life in Washington, D.C., and what it was like growing up there. She listened and then suddenly, she leaned forward and tapped emphatically on the back of the driver's seat.
"Go the long way, Boggs. I'd like her to see the Gardens?'
"Very good, Mrs. Endfield," he muttered and made a quick turn.
"Life is very difficult for black people in America, I know?' she said. "Frances hasn't told you that our great-great-great-grandfather owned slaves, has she?"
Before I could reply, she shouted, "There!" and stabbed her finger in front of my face, "Kensington Gardens. Everything is in bloom.
"Lady Billings and I are going to sponsor a picnic for the orphans next month. Oh, I believe my sister said you were an orphan now. You must forget all that, my dear. Think of us as your surrogate family until.,, until whatever?' she said laughing.
"Everyone tells me I could have been an actress. I have the talent for it. Boggs, can you drive a little faster? I promised Lady Billings I would ring her up this afternoon?'
"Very good, Mrs. Endfield," he said quietly.
"You were saying?' she said, turning back to me and smiling. "Something about your sister Beni, I think. What a quaint name, Beni? Short for Beneatha? I knew a Beneatha. Oh yes, that dreadful East Ender who came around with the chimney sweep. Boggs, remember them?"
"Yes, Mrs. Endfield. I do indeed?'
"Well, what happened to them?"
"I wouldn't know, Mrs. Endfield," Boggs replied.
"No, I don't suppose you would, Boggs. Dreadful people. You could see the soot in the very pores on their faces." She shook herself as if she had gotten a bad chill. Then she looked at me again and shook her head. "I don't know why you're not hungry, my dear. The food they serve on planes is just dreadful. However, Mrs. Chester will have something for you, I'm sure, even if it's tea and a fig biscuit. We're almost home. Endfield Place?' she said grandly as if it was Tara from Gone with the Wind.
My head was spinning. A little while ago she had asked me something, but I forgot what it was myself. I really began to wonder how Grandmother Hudson and Leonora could be sisters.
"This is Holland Park," she said, "one of the nicest areas of London. My throat's suddenly so dry. I'll have a cup of tea myself when we finally get home. Thank goodness, we don't make the trip to the airport all that much, right Boggs?"
"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Endfield," he said. He was like a statue--never turning his head once during the journey.
"Well, in any case, welcome to London, dear?' she said as we turned into a cobblestone driveway toward a very large stone house.
As we circled toward the front entrance, I saw what looked like a quaint little cottage behind the house. Well-trimmed hedges lined the front of it with a small walkway in between. It looked like fresh flowers had been planted along the path. The cottage was different, sparkling like new. It was a wooden structure with Wedgwood blue cladding and pretty white shutters. I thought it looked more like a dollhouse.
"What a pretty cottage," I remarked. "Who lives in it?'
My Great-aunt Leonora turned slowly to me. Her face had changed, hardened so that her true age seeped out from under the makeup and deepened the crevices in her forehead and the lines at the corners of her mouth and
eyes.
"No one lives there," she said. "And no one is ever to go there."
Her voice was deep, almost threatening.
Then she smiled and laughed. She was obviously someone who could hop from one emotion to another in an instant.
"Welcome to Endfield Place. Welcome to your new home, my dear:"
I gazed at the grand house and beautiful grounds. Home, I thought, when will that word have any real meaning for me again?
2
Visitors in the Night
.
My Great-aunt Leonora's butler walked with a
pronounced limp. It looked like his right leg was shorter than his left. When he stepped down on his left foot, his right leg rose and fell almost as if it was a loose appendage he had to swing around. He was a tall, thin man easily about six feet four with curly brown and gray hair like one of the Marx Brothers. His face was long with a narrow chin so far below his lip it looked like it was slowly dripping away as he grew older. He had delicate lips that were tucked down in the corners and eyes set deeply in his skull. I thought he resembled a man who had once been so terrified by something that fear seized his features and froze them in this look of habitual shock. He waited alongside the car for Boggs to come around and open the door for Great-aunt Leonora.
"Get the bags out of the boot," Boggs snapped at him. The butler bobbed his head like a horse and started around to the trunk of the car. Boggs helped Great-aunt Leonora out and then stood back as I emerged.
"This is Rain Arnold, Leo," Great-aunt Leonora told the butler. He poked his head around the trunk lid and struggled to produce a weak smile. When he glanced at Boggs, who glared at him so fiercely, Leo moved more quickly. No one seemed to care or even see how he struggled with it all. Boggs didn't make any attempt to help.
"There she is," Great-aunt Leonora cried when the maid appeared in the doorway. To me it seemed like the butler and the maid had been waiting at the front windows to watch for our arrival. "Mary Margaret will show you to your quarters, dear."
I looked at the petite young woman who stared at me with interest in her soft blue eyes. She looked childlike and stood no more than four feet eleven at most. Her facial features were as perfect as a doll's and as diminutive. Against her dark blue uniform blouse, her small bosom looked to be no more than a pair of preadolescent bumps. She was so fragile, her wrists so narrow, I wondered how she could be anyone's servant. I thought she began to smile, but when she glanced at Boggs, she stopped her lips from curving and an icy fear slid over her eyes. Instead, she did a small dip of a curtsey and stepped back.
Behind us, Leo groaned and squeezed one of my suitcases between his arm and the side of his body, adjusting his hip bone to keep the luggage in place. The weight of the other two pulled his shoulder down so that the lines in his neck became embossed against his pale white skin as he clenched his teeth with the effort to hold on to them. Still, Boggs didn't offer him any help, and I was afraid to say a word.
"Mary Margaret will find you a proper uniform after she shows you your quarters, dear, and then, Boggs will describe your duties to you. Well, don't just stand there like some waxwork, Mary Margaret. Say hello to her. She doesn't bite, you know," Greataunt Leonora said.
Mary Margaret's eyes went from her to me. "Hello," she said barely above a whisper. "Hi." I gave her my best smile, but she looked
down and waited. We entered the house. I was immediately surprised at how dark the corridor was. The walls were a shade of burgundy. There were pictures everywhere, all dark oils hung in dark frames. A gray rug lined the entryway floor and a very dim chandelier hung from the ceiling. Ahead of us was a staircase that wound to the right. It had a mahogany balustrade, but the steps looked like stone. When I drew closer, I saw they were actually covered in a thin silvery gray carpet.
Mary Margaret started into the house with Leo banging my luggage into the door frame behind us. He was really straining, yet still no one apparently cared. It seemed I was the only one who even noticed.
"Wait," Great-aunt Leonora cried as I started after Mary Margaret. "I've decided to show Rain the house first. That way it will be easier for her when Boggs describes her duties. As soon as you settle her in, Mary Margaret, you'll take her to see Mrs. Chester and get her some tea."
"Yes, mum," Mary Margaret said, followed by the dropping of her eyes as if Great-aunt Leonora was some royal person who wasn't supposed to be gazed at directly. She added a tiny curtsey like a punctuation mark after responding, again.
"Over here is the drawing room," Great-aunt Leonora said.
I gazed in without stepping through the doorway. There was a small fireplace with a white marble mantel. Around the room were a variety of Romantic paintings and some portraits of dourlooking women and stern-looking men in gray wigs. The windows were draped in cream silk curtains and every table, every available space in fact, was occupied with some artifact, bric-a-brac, vases, pewter figures, or miniatures. There were footstools in front of the chairs and the furniture was done in a dark brown chintz. Against the wall to my right was a tall, dark oak grandfather's clock with the hands stuck on twelve.
"All these pictures were collected by my husband's ancestors. The National Gallery would like to get their hands on them," she added with a small laugh.
"Here," she continued moving down the hallway, "is our dining room."
Again, I stood back like someone at a museum being given a lecture and shown precious antiques which were to be looked at only and never touched. I felt as if there was an invisible velvet rope between me and every piece of furniture, every work of art, every statue. Great-aunt Leonora was as
knowledgeable as a museum guide.
"Our dining room is built around a mantel inspired by one that was brought to Buckingham Palace from Brighton. The wallpaper was painted with decorations based on an eighteenth-century pattern, you know. Our dining room chairs have been done in Bertram and Els chair fabrics. They are all the rage these days. That chandelier," she said, nodding toward the ceiling at a crystal and green glass chandelier, "comes from Russia, We recently had those French doors installed so we can enjoy the spring and summer air while we dine."
The doors looked onto the garden which was in full bloom.
She showed me what she called the formal living room and told me the Bessarabian carpet was worth thousands and thousands of pounds. There was a baby grand piano with some sheet music opened on it as if someone had just played. All the furnishings were in dark patterns and the room itself looked as unused and as untouched as a showcase in a furniture store window.
I was truly impressed by the library. It was cluttered with art and valuable-looking objects just like the other rooms, but the library was literally filled to the brim with books in built-in bookcases on every wall. I didn't think one more volume of anything could be added. The shelves went to the ceiling and there was a ladder that could be pushed along to get access to any book.
"Richard is very proud of his rare book collection," Great-aunt Leonora said. "Most of what you see here are first editions, some going back as far as the early nineteenth century. He has original Dickens, Thackeray, Samuel Johnson, George Eliot. You name the author, Richard has something of his or hers," she added with a tiny laugh that sounded more like the tinkle of small bells.
The library windows were also draped in silk. There was a velvet sofa with a matching chair. At the far end of the library was a large oak desk. Everything on the top of it was well organized. Whatever wood showed through gleamed with fresh polish.
"This is the only sexist part of our home," Great-aunt Leonora declared as she presented the next room that contained a large pool table. "The billiards room is truly for men only. Who wants to come out smelling like a tobacco plant anyway?"
We glanced at it for a few seconds, but it was long enough for me to get a strong whiff of the cigars that were smoked in it recently.
As we moved through the house, looking in on each room, I wondered how someone as f
ragile and small as Mary Margaret could keep up with it all. What a feasting ground for dust, I thought, with all these pieces of art, little statuary, glass figurines, and pewter.
Trailing behind us during this tour was Leo with my suitcases and Mary Margaret at his side. Boggs remained in the entryway standing like a sentry. Suddenly, Great-aunt Leonora spun around and clapped her hands.
"I've decided to show you some of the upstairs. Everyone else can wait here," she declared. I glanced at Mary Margaret, but she wouldn't look directly at me either. Her eyes shifted so that she looked at a blank wall space between two oil paintings of country scenes.
I followed Great-aunt Leonora up the stairs. She paused at the double doors of her and her husband's bedroom.
"I know what you're thinking," she said suddenly, hesitating to open the doors. I raised my eyebrows. She knew what I was thinking? I hoped not. "You're thinking our rooms are so small compared to my sister's house. Americans always do things in a bigger way than anyone else," she continued, once again referring to Americans as foreigners even though she was one. "These older houses weren't built that way. Here, we had to think about heating them and the cost of that, among other things. However, this is a house with history. Do you know it was built nearly a hundred years before the house Frances lives in was built?" she asked. I shook my head. "This is a country with a past, where laws and art and literature began. But," she said with a small wag of her head, "you probably know all this, being a good student. Voila!" she cried and threw open her bedroom doors with a dramatic flair.
She immediately explained that her bed was a Georgian-style painted fourposter. On the side of the room where she had her vanity table hung an Indian ivory-and-ebony oval mirror she claimed Richard had bought at an auction, outbidding someone named Lord Flanders by five thousand pounds. There was a satinwood table where she wrote her notes and letters, long velvet drapes over the windows, lamps she claimed had been imported from Egypt as well as some original Tiffany designs. According to her all of her furnishings had historical meaning and all were refurbished antiques. On the wall to the right of the entryway was a large portrait of a man who she immediately told me was Sir Godfrey Rogers.
Lightning Strikes Page 3