“We-e-ell …” Kipper scratched one ear with a soapy finger.
“Please, Kipper. Say you’ll bring it.”
“We-e-ell …” Kipper scratched the other ear. “Don’t know how Pa’ll take to it, you taking such chances.”
“Please!” Emily pleaded. “I’ll be so careful. I promise!”
“We-e-ell,” said Kipper. And with no more ears left to scratch, he finally agreed to bring enough fish syrup for everyone.
NINE
An Unexpected Invitation
Emily pushed open the kitchen door and peered stealthily across the dining room. Tock! Tock! Tock! Only the face of the grandfather clock, tolling its mournful tale, was there to look down on her. Still, she hesitated. She had long since begun to wish that Kipper had gone on scratching his ears until he had concluded that she could not take, that he would not allow her to take, the fish syrup around to all the old people. Having an exciting idea when talking with Kipper in the comparative safety of the laundry room was one thing, but carrying it out all on her own in the shadows of Sugar Hill Hall was another. She could not, however, stand there waiting forever.
Her heart lodged somewhere near her throat, she ran on tiptoes across the dining room. Then she peeked cautiously into the parlor. Even with the syrup bottle well hidden under the rags in her bucket, she was relieved to find no one there but a few old people, staring across the room with unseeing eyes. She scurried past the peppermints and started up the stairs. She had gone no more than three steps, however, when she heard the sound of heavy boots stumping down to the landing. She looked up with a start, expecting to see Tilly.
Instead she saw a man wearing an extraordinarily untidy sea captain’s uniform coming directly toward her. His face had not had the attention of a razor in some days and was as ugly a face as Emily had ever seen. Through a mat of coarse stubble, a bulbous nose, decorated by a wart large and black as a fly, swelled out over thick, rubbery lips. A scarlet gash seared one cheek from chin to ear.
Emily stared at the sea captain with fixed eyes, and he stared back. She felt as if she was suddenly covered with a sheet of ice. Who was this ugly horror of a man? What was he doing at Sugar Hill Hall? What might he do to her right then? His eyes seemed to drill a hole right through the bucket to the bottle of fish syrup.
But whatever his business there, it had nothing to do with Emily. He simply brushed right past her with only a twitch of a squinted, bloodshot eye. The grandfather clock must have tocked away a whole minute before Emily was able to move again. Still trembling, she hurried on up the stairs. With eyes intently fastened on her feet lest she stumble and drop the bucket, she was all the way to the head of the stairs before she saw Mrs. Plumly standing in her doorway, watching.
“Oh!” Emily gasped.
“My dear child!” exclaimed Mrs. Plumly. It was the first time Emily had ever heard her voice, and it was sweet and musical, matching Mrs. Plumly perfectly. “I’m so sorry. Did I frighten you?”
“N-no,” stammered Emily. “I—I was only startled.”
“But you do look so pale, my dear. Did something else alarm you?” Mrs. Plumly looked alarmed herself. Her round face was puckered up into a whole map of pink wrinkles.
Emily nodded. “A—a sea captain, coming down the stairs. He—he was ugly and horrible-looking.”
“Sea captain? Ugly?” Mrs. Plumly looked puzzled. Then suddenly her eyebrows raised. “Ah! I think I know the person you mean. Now, what could he be doing prowling about Sugar Hill Hall? We can’t have this. I must speak to Mrs. Meeching about it. But not yet, child. I—I’ve been wanting so much to speak with you. Wait!” Mrs. Plumly held up a warning finger, then tiptoed to the bannister and looked into the mirror that reflected the parlor below.
Quickly, she tiptoed back and beckoned Emily into her room. “Come! It’s safe now. Come into my room, dear child.”
Emily was so surprised and overwhelmed by this unexpected invitation that she could hardly put one foot before the other. As soon as she entered the cozy room, Mrs. Plumly swiftly closed the door behind her.
“Oh, my dear child, I have wanted so much to speak with you. I have been so lonely for the sound of a young voice. As you can see, all I have now is my pictures and my memories.” She looked sadly toward all the photographs on the walls. “But please, please do sit down for just a moment.”
Still unable to believe that she was actually in this delightful room with Mrs. Plumly, Emily set down her bucket and seated herself on a small walnut rocker beside the fireplace. A teakettle sang softly over the glowing coals, and before it a silver dish of tiny cakes lay temptingly on a low table.
Mrs. Plumly settled down soft as a Christmas pudding into a pale green velvet armchair across the table. “Now, please do help yourself to some cakes,” she said in her melodious voice, smiling at Emily.
Emily could easily have taken a handful of the luscious little cakes. She felt so empty. The fish syrup had gone down smoothly, just as Kipper predicted it would, but she had not been taking it long enough yet for it to have had much effect when she faced the morning menu of tasteless gruel. Good manners, however, stood in the way of present hunger.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Plumly,” she said, and took one small cherry cream tart.
“Oh my sweet child,” Mrs. Plumly said quickly, “please have another. You must be so hungry. And please, too, won’t you call me Aunty Plum when we are alone together? It would mean such a great deal to me.”
“Y-y-yes, Aunty—Aunty Plum,” said Emily shyly.
“That’s so much better!” Mrs. Plumly smiled again. Then her smile faded suddenly. She jumped up from her chair and ran to the door, her yellow flowered skirt whispering anxiously across the floor. She stood for a few moments with her ear pressed against the door before returning to collapse into her seat. Her face was stiff with fear.
“It’s all right, child,” she said, breathing heavily. “There’s no one there. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Oh Aunty Plum, are you—are you—” Emily could not go on.
“Speak, child,” said Mrs. Plumly urgently. “What is it you wish to say?”
“Aunty Plum, are you—are you a prisoner of Sugar Hill Hall, too, like-like Aunt Twice?”
Mrs. Plumly nodded stiffly. “Yes, dear, I too am a prisoner.” Her eyes swam in tears. “Only I, thanks be to someone’s kindness, am more fortunate than the other sad inmates of this mansion.”
Thanks be to someone’s kindness! Emily drew in a sharp breath. “Aunty Plum, are you the one whose very life depends on—on Aunt Twice?” She had blurted it out before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Plumly looked as if she had turned to stone. “Did—did your Aunt Twice mention any name?”
“N-n-no,” stammered Emily, thoroughly frightened. “She would not tell me.”
Mrs. Plumly’s soft grey eyes now burned with a terrible fear. “Please, please, child, ask no more questions of your aunt, or of me.” She looked over her shoulder with a deep shudder. “The walls here have eyes and ears I”
The eyes and ears of Sugar Hill Hall—again! Whose? thought Emily, trembling.
“Now I’m afraid you must leave, my dear Emily,” Mrs. Plumly said, finally collecting herself. “I’ve kept you here too long already. But before you go, please do promise two things. One is that you will be very, very careful. And the other is that you will return again some time to see me.”
“I promise both,” Emily said earnestly, and then they parted.
But as she carried her bucket up the stairs, more questions plummeted through her mind. There was one question, however, she no longer needed to ask anyone. For Emily now knew as surely as she knew how night followed day that Mrs. Plumly was the one Aunt Twice was protecting! But that answer only served to open up a new question—why?
Kipper marched into the cellar laundry room carrying two paper sacks in his hands. He set them both down carefully on the stone floor and began to unwrap his green-and-white-strip
ed muffler. “Well, did you do it?” His eyes were bluer than ever with suppressed excitement.
“I did!” Emily smiled up at him from over her washboard.
“Dingus, Emily! Did you have any trouble? I mean, you didn’t get seen nor anything?” As he talked, Kipper was already rolling up his sleeves, prepared to help with the wash. He dropped to his knees before a second tub Tilly had thoughtfully placed there as soon as she learned he was willing to offer his services free of charge.
“Well—” Emily said. She hardly knew where to begin. “Oh, Kipper, I have so much to tell you!”
“Then best start telling,” said Kipper with a cheerful grin.
But before Emily had finished her story, the grin had long since faded and been replaced by a thoughtful, somber expression. “Sounds mighty like you’re right ’bout Mrs. Plumly being the one your aunt is pertecting,” he said. “And if that’s so, it makes for lots more questions.”
“I know,” Emily said. “And I don’t-I don’t like any of them, Kipper!” Her voice broke.
“Now, see here, don’t you go doing any more o’ them supposings ’bout your Uncle Twice, Emily. Ain’t anything definite ’bout anything. Come now,” he said with a reassuring bob of his head, “tell me more ’bout that sea cap’n. You say he had a nasty wart on top o’ his nose and a red cut going all the way from his chin to his ear?”
Emily nodded.
“Well, you know if that ain’t a exact description o’ Cap’n Scurlock, I’ll eat a live eel, as Pa always says.”
“Do you mean you know him?” Emily asked.
“Don’t know him personal,” Kipper replied. “Just know he’s a mighty nasty indiwidual, him and all his wicked crew. Mrs. Plumly’s right not to want the likes o’ him prowling ’round Sugar Hill Hall. Wonder what he was up to. I ain’t seen him but once or twice inside here as I can recollect, and then only having a word with the snake lady at the front door. But see here, we never got ’round to talking ’bout the fish syrup. You never did tell Mrs. Plumly ’bout it, did you?” he asked anxiously.
Emily shook her head.
“Good! Best not tell anyone ’bout it, Emily. Not anyone!”
“I won’t,” Emily promised. “I don’t think we should, either.”
“But you never did say,” Kipper continued, “do the old ones take to the fish syrup?”
“Oh yes!” cried Emily. “They take it like lambs, the ones I can give it to without being seen. But, Kipper, they just open their mouths for the syrup, like babies who have grown very old without ever learning to speak or smile. I wonder now if I’ll ever be able to help them.”
“But ain’t anybody’s appetite growing any bigger?” Kipper asked.
“Well, some of them do finish their soup now, as I’m beginning to, but they won’t touch the bread. Until they do, you know Mrs. Meeching won’t get them any fresh.”
“Give ’em time,” said Kipper. “Anyways, I brung you some more syrup.”
“Oh good!” Emily clapped her hands together. “I doubt there’s a spoonful left in the bottle. Is it in those bags you brought?”
“It’s in one o’ them,” Kipper replied carelessly. “How ’bout you going over to find out what’s in the other?”
Emily looked at him curiously, but he suddenly became very intent on scrubbing a piece of linen on his washboard. She quickly wiped her hands on her bedraggled dress and ran over to the sacks. Dropping to her knees, she carefully opened one sack and lifted out three large brown bottles of fish syrup. But when she started to open the second sack, she heard an odd little squeak coming from deep inside it. She looked at Kipper with surprise, looked inside the sack, and then threw her hands to her mouth.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! A kitten! A little calico kitten! Where did it come from? And who is it for?”
“Come from Pa’s and my Blackie,” said Kipper, beaming from ear to ear. “And it’s for you! I been busting to tell you. I was afraid it’d wake up and spoil my surprise.”
“A kitten I” breathed Emily rapturously, lifting it carefully from the sack. “But where will I keep it, and how will I feed it?”
“Feeding’s easy, what with Pa’s fish business,” Kipper replied. “As for keeping it, well, I guess as how Pa and me’ll have to keep it. But I’ll bring it to you from time to time so’s you can play with it, Emily.”
Emily set the kitten gently down on the floor. Just as she did, a drop of water flew out from Kipper’s tub and splashed onto its nose. Startled, the kitten arched its back and pranced across the floor. Emily giggled. Then she held out her hand, and the kitten came to sniff at it. Assured of its safety, the kitten suddenly rolled over on its back so that nothing could be seen but its soft white chest, which looked to Emily exactly like Mama’s lambswool powder puff that she had once loved to play with.
“Oh, Kipper,” she breathed, “if only I could keep it just for tonight. Could I?”
“ ’Fraid not, Emily.” Kipper shook his head firmly. “Too much danger. Anyways, where’d you keep it?”
Emily thought a moment. “There’s a tiny room up from mine that’s not locked because there’s nothing in it. Tilly never has a need to go in there, and neither does Aunt Twice.”
“We-e-ell …”
“Please, Kipper! Only for one night. I won’t ask for more.”
“But I ain’t coming back tomorrow, Emily. I ain’t going to be here ’til the day after to deliver the fish.”
“Two nights aren’t any more dangerous than one. Please say you’ll leave it!” Emily pleaded.
“Well,” Kipper said uncertainly, “I guess it would be all right. I’ve brought enough fish, and a bit o’ milk. But no more than two nights, now!”
“Oh, Kipper!” Emily whispered, stroking the kitten’s velvety ears. “If only I could take it around for the old people to see.”
Kipper’s head jerked up so suddenly he almost toppled over. “Oh no!” he said sternly. “Oh no, Miss Emily, none o’ that! I ain’t going to have anything left but grey hair time you get through with all your dangerous notions. There’s to be no taking the kitten out o’ this cellar!”
“But I take the fish syrup around,” said Emily. “Why is it that I can take the fish syrup if I can’t take the kitten?”
“ ’Cause,” said Kipper fiercely, “fish syrup don’t mew, Emily!”
“Oh!” said Emily meekly.
TEN
Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops
Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Emily crept up the stairs. She was clutching her bucket so tightly her hand ached. Deep inside the bucket, curled up in a nest of sponges and rags and covered with torn scraps of muslin, lay the kitten. Its tiny stomach swelled with two whole saucers of milk, it was now soundly, and safely, asleep.
But what if it should awaken? What if Emily should run into the ugly Captain Scurlock again, or even Mrs. Plumly, who should no more know about the kitten than the fish syrup? Or, horror of horrors, what if Emily should run into Mrs. Meeching herself? Despite all these possible dangers, however, and despite the solemn warning of the grandfather clock in the dining room, Emily’s footsteps continued on their dangerous journey, almost as if they had a mind of their own. Slowly.
Slowly.
Slowly.
By the time she crept from the dark, narrow stairwell that led to the attic, her legs felt ready to buckle under her. And the hand that reached out to tap on Mrs. Poovey’s and Mrs. Loops’s door was cold as the underground stones of Sugar Hill Hall. But she was safe! Now all that remained was to discover if bringing the kitten was worth the terrible risk.
She stood outside the door, knowing that no one would answer her knock, whether the room was empty or not. But she would never march into one of the old people’s rooms unannounced as Tilly did. After allowing a few moments to pass, Emily finally entered.
The scene in the room was exactly the same as the last time she had been there. It was as if she had simply returned to lo
ok at a painting on the wall. Mrs. Poovey still sat silently by her cot in the same frayed black wool shawl, with her tiny hands folded in her lap. Across from her, the enormous Mrs. Loops overflowed a tiny wooden chair, her apricot dress, large as a circus tent, drooping about her ankles. Her face was stained with recent tears, and as Emily entered, fresh supplies were already preparing to gush from her eyes. Yet, like Mrs. Poovey, she said nothing. Except for an occasional sniff and a dab at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief, she sat and stared at the blank wall in mournful silence.
Emily set her bucket on the floor and knelt down beside it. Then, reaching in as if to pull out a rag or a sponge, she carefully lifted out the sleeping kitten instead. Without a word, she laid it gently on Mrs. Poovey’s lap within the circle of the small, withered hands. A hush fell on the room as Mrs. Poovey continued to sit silent and still. Then slowly, slowly she lifted one hand and began to stroke the kitten’s head. And then slowly, just as slowly, two tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Does it have a name?” she asked. Her voice was like the tinkling of a tiny, very old silver bell.
“Not yet,” replied Emily. “Would you like to give it one, Mrs. Poovey?”
Mrs. Poovey seemed to go into a trance as she continued stroking the kitten. “Clarabelle,” she said at last, transporting the name from a faraway time and place. “I had a kitten by that name once.”
“Then that shall be its name!” Emily said promptly.
With that, Mrs. Poovey suddenly took Emily’s hand in hers and pressed it to her wet cheek. “Oh, my dear child! My dear child!”
Emily gave her a trembling smile. What would Kipper say if he could see Mrs. Poovey, who had not been able to cry since she entered Sugar Hill Hall, now crying tears of happiness!
The continuously weeping Mrs. Loops, however, had most curiously not produced the smallest sniff for some moments. Emily turned to her, and there was Mrs. Loops beaming and holding out her arms for Clarabelle! Mrs. Poovey quickly handed her the kitten.
Peppermints in the Parlor Page 8