“Clarabelle is a lovely name, Mrs. Poovey. I couldn’t have thought of a prettier one,” said Mrs. Loops.
Mrs. Poovey’s face, already wrinkled as a dried leaf, crinkled further with pleasure. “Thank you, Mrs. Loops.”
These were probably the first words the ladies had exchanged since Mrs. Loops’s arrival! After a few enchanted moments, in which the two simply sat gazing at the kitten asleep in the folds of Mrs. Loops’s apricot dress, Mrs. Poovey spoke again.
“She has a pink nose!”
“And white whiskers!” added Mrs. Loops in the voice of one who has just made the most remarkable discovery in the world.
“Could—could she be purring?” asked Mrs. Poovey.
Mrs. Loops lowered an ear close to Clarabelle and nodded raptly.
They continued finding new delights about the kitten to bring to one another’s attention and exclaim over, murmuring softly and hesitantly as if they were learning to talk all over again and needed to become used to the sound of their own voices.
Not wanting to interrupt the kitten’s magic, Emily went quietly to work on her chores. The two old ladies were so intent on Clarabelle, they hardly seemed to notice that all the while they were talking, Emily was sloshing and washing, scrubbing and sweeping, bed making and dusting. She didn’t mind at all and was perfectly content to let the kitten be the center of attention. After all, think what it had accomplished! She began to sing under her breath.
“Clarabelle’s the kitten’s name.
Kitten’s name, kitten’s name,
Nothing now will be the same,
My fair lady!”
Emily never even noticed that the room had fallen very quiet, and the ladies had stopped talking. Then suddenly Mrs. Poovey rose from her chair and took Emily’s hands in her own.
“My dear child, thank you for bringing life to this barren room!”
“Oh!” breathed Emily. “You and Mrs. Loops do love the kitten so much, don’t you?”
“Of course we do!” exclaimed Mrs. Poovey. “But darling Emily, it’s you I meant!”
“Of course it was!” affirmed Mrs. Loops, returning Clarabelle to Mrs. Poovey in order to draw Emily down onto her own ample lap, hugging and petting her as if she were a kitten too!
“And just think of the danger in bringing Clarabelle to us!” The huge apricot lap under Emily trembled as if it were being shaken by a violent earthquake.
“Well, I wanted so much to have you smiling and talking. Mrs. Poovey, why did it take you so very long? I began to think you never would speak.”
Mrs. Poovey traced a pattern on Clarabelle’s head with a delicate finger. “I believe I had forgotten how, and I believe Mrs. Loops was rapidly forgetting, too, like all of us. And you must remember how very frightened we all are. So very, very frightened of this house and of everyone in it.”
“Even of me?” asked Emily.
“Even of you, dear child—at first.” Mrs. Poovey sent Emily a smile that begged her forgiveness.
“But Mrs. Poovey,” Emily blurted out, “you dared to take the peppermints!” Then she gasped and threw her hands to her mouth. But it was too late, the words were out.
Mrs. Poovey stiffened. All sound was squeezed from the room by a silence as heavy as stone. The silence continued, until all at once it was shattered into a thousand tinkling bits by the sound of Mrs. Poovey’s tiny, silver bell laughter. A mischievous spark twinkled in her eyes. “Why so I did!” she exclaimed.
“You didn’t!” gasped Mrs. Loops, her extra chins quivering with delight.
“I did indeed!” retorted Mrs. Poovey.
“Well, I never!” said the beaming Mrs. Loops.
Emily would like to have stayed there the whole morning, enjoying this delightful scene, but she still had an entire attic-full of chores ahead of her. She slipped off Mrs. Loops’s expansive lap. “Please excuse me, but I do have to go on with my work.”
“Must you go so soon?” Mrs. Poovey asked. “It seems as if you’ve only just come.”
“I’ve been here much too long already,” Emily said. She picked up her bucket, and then thought of something. “Oh! Oh!”
“What’s the matter, child?” Mrs. Loops asked anxiously.
“What am I going to do with Clarabelle while I do the other rooms?” Emily moaned. “I would love to take her with me for the others to see, but I can’t. I haven’t time. What shall I do with her?”
The two old ladies exchanged glances. “Why, leave her here with us, of course!” said Mrs. Poovey.
“Are—are you certain it’s all right?” Emily asked.
“You needn’t have a moment’s worry, child,” Mrs. Poovey said. “She’ll be perfectly safe here, won’t she, Mrs. Loops?”
“Oh, perfectly!” said Mrs. Loops.
Emily’s happiness over what had happened in Mrs. Poovey’s and Mrs. Loops’s room was thoroughly dampened when she had to slosh and wash and dust and sweep before the silent, hopeless faces of Mr. Bottle and Mr. Dobbs, Mrs. Quirk and Mrs. Biggs. If only the kitten could be brought around to all of them! But Kipper had said that Emily could keep it for no more than two nights, and that put an end to the matter. She finished her chores and hurried back to retrieve Clarabelle.
Persuaded that the kitten’s safety was assured, Emily was stunned by the scene that met her when she returned to the room of the two old ladies. Both Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops were sitting by their cots with faces as bleak and expressionless as two old stones. And Clarabelle was nowhere to be seen! But as Emily’s eyes scoured the room with horror, Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops suddenly broke into tremulous smiles.
“My dear child, we are so sorry if we frightened you,” said Mrs. Poovey.
“Oh yes, dear, we only wanted to show you how very careful we would be if you—if you …” Mrs. Loops faltered, and turned to Mrs. Poovey.
“If you would only let us keep Clarabelle with us!” concluded Mrs. Poovey.
“K-k-keep Clarabelle?” stammered Emily. “Do you mean not take her back at all?”
“That is exactly what we mean!” said Mrs. Poovey. “We promise to take such good care of her, and we do so much want to share her with the others.”
Share Clarabelle with the others! Wasn’t that what Emily had wanted? “But—but where would you keep her? Wouldn’t it be too dangerous?”
Conspiracy twinkled in the look that danced from Mrs. Poovey to Mrs. Loops and back again. “Attics have all sorts of hidden nooks and crannies—” said Mrs. Poovey.
“Yes!” chimed in Mrs. Loops. “Behind doors and cupbo—” She stopped suddenly in blushing confusion as Mrs. Poovey sent her a warning cough.
“We think it safer, dear child, for you to know nothing about Clarabelle’s hiding places.” Mrs. Poovey paused before asking suddenly, “Does Tilly know of the kitten?”
“Oh no!” cried Emily. “No one knows of it except Kipper, who gave it to me.”
“Good!” said Mrs. Poovey firmly. “Now, will you let us keep Clarabelle?”
Emily needed only a few moments to decide on her answer. “Yes!” How she would face up to an angry Kipper she would think about later.
The two ladies clapped their hands in little-girl delight.
“Now I must hurry back to the kitchen,” Emily said. “I’ll try to come back later with food for Clarabelle.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Mrs. Poovey. “But please, dear darling child,” she begged, “wait for one more moment. I want to give you a gift for all you have done for us.” As she was speaking, she daintily lifted her skirt and unpinned something from her petticoat. “Here, it is all I have left of value in this world, but I do want you to have it.”
Tears sprang to Emily’s eyes as Mrs. Poovey pressed into her hand a small cameo brooch of coral set in pure gold.
“Oh, Mrs. Poovey, why didn’t I think of doing that?” said Mrs. Loops. “How clever of you to have pinned the brooch to your petticoat. I would love to have something for Emily, but all my j-j-jewels were
t-t-taken from my travelling bag before it came to this room.” She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.
Jewels taken from Mrs. Loops’s travelling bag! Aunt Twice stitching Emily’s twenty gold pieces into the mattress in her cellar room! A cameo pinned to a petticoat! Did every precious thing in Sugar Hill Hall have to be hidden lest it disappear mysteriously? What of Mama’s jewels that were still to come in the trunks? Where were they to be hidden—or for that matter, this very cameo?
“Please, Mrs. Poovey, would you be so kind as to keep it for me? And my locket as well?” Emily un fastened it from around her neck. “I wouldn’t want them—want them lost.” She couldn’t help thinking of Tilly reviewing all her “pretty things” in the cellar, and “borrowing” (probably forever) her white fur tam-o’-shanter. It was a wonder that she had thus far been able to keep her locket from Tilly’s prying eyes.
“Lost? Lost indeed!” Mrs. Poovey bobbed her head indignantly. “Just as Mrs. Loops’s jewels were lost, I expect. But of course I will keep both the cameo and the locket pinned safely to my person, dear child, and keep them safely. They might find a peppermint, but they won’t tamper with a petticoat!” she added tartly. “And now you must hurry along.”
“I will,” Emily said. “But please, please do be careful!”
“You may be sure that we will, child. The walls of Sugar Hill Hall may have eyes and ears.” Mrs. Poovey’s own eyes, sharp as a bird’s in search of a worm, darted around the room. “But then, so do we!” she concluded grimly.
ELEVEN
The Remembrance Room
Emily was on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor when a strong smell of fish announced Kipper’s arrival. He was cradling in his arms the familiar newspaper-wrapped parcel, but his normally cheerful face looked stricken.
“It’s been found out, ain’t it!” he exclaimed.
Emily barely looked up at him. “N-n-no,” she stammered in a small, fading voice.
Kipper’s clear eyes narrowed suddenly as he thumped the package of fish down in the sink. “All right, Emily, me girl, you’d best come clean with me. If it ain’t been found out, and it ain’t in the room where it was to stay—and it ain’t because I looked— then where is it? Pa’ll have my skin in strips if anything happens to you on ’count o’ that kitten.”
Emily finally gathered the courage to look Kipper in the eye. “It’s—it’s up in Mrs. Poovey’s and Mrs. Loops’s room.”
“In Mrs. Whats’s and Mrs. Who’s room?” Kipper exploded. “I thought you was acting mighty fishy, if you’ll pardon the expression. What in thunderation is it doing up there after I warned you, Emily?”
“I had a very good reason.” Emily sniffed indignantly.
“Well, it had better be!” Kipper produced as cold a look as someone with his cheerful red hair and cheeks could muster. “Perhaps you’d just best tell me ’bout it, if you don’t mind.”
“All right then,” said Emily, “if you want to know, I wasn’t going to take the kitten to show the old people, except that the very next meal after you gave it to me, I ate all my soup and every crumb of my lump of bread. So there!”
“Fish syrup!” said Kipper grimly. “ ’Twas the fish syrup done that, not the kitten.”
“It might have been partly the fish syrup, but it was mostly the kitten.” Emily threw her chin up defiantly. “I carried it upstairs hidden in my cleaning bucket, and I never met anybody, and it never mewed!”
“Well,” said Kipper, “you might have, and it might have, and what you done was stoopid, Emily!”
This lecture was followed by several minutes during which both parties sank into stony silence.
Then at last Kipper said gruffly, “All right, as long as you done it, you might as well tell me all ’bout it.”
This was all the persuasion Emily needed. She was bursting to tell Clarabelle’s story, and before she had finished, Kipper could no longer hide his grudging admiration.
“So have all the old ones seen the kitten now?” he asked.
“Not quite all,” replied Emily, “but Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops intend to see that they do, every one of them. And Kipper, you can’t imagine how it is now when I go into the rooms where Clarabelle has been, everyone smiling at me and making conversation.”
“And calling you a dear child, too, no doubt!” Kipper grinned. “I suppose you deserve it, so no need to blush ’bout it.”
“Anyway,” Emily continued when she had recovered from the blush, “Clarabelle will need some more fish and some milk and some sand, and—”
“And I ain’t got a choice, I suppose, but to be the one to pervide all them necessities o’ life?” inquired Kipper.
“Oh yes, please,” said Emily quite matter-of-factly, as if the whole thing was settled and there was nothing more to be said about it.
Kipper could only stand and stare at her. It could be said that the kitten had, in fact, got his tongue!
“And there’s something I haven’t told you yet, Kipper,” Emily said. “This morning at breakfast, all the old people finished their gruel, six asked for more, and some even began on their bread lumps. There now, tell me Clarabelle hadn’t anything to do with it!”
“Dingus, Emily,” said Kipper, “if you ain’t the one!”
The morning meal, the noon meal, and the evening meal were becoming livelier and livelier events, what with gruel, fish head stew, and soup being drained down to the bottom of the bowl, bread being eaten up so rapidly that in no time at all fresh bread had to be provided, and the secret smiles and glances that were passed along with the tea bag as it travelled around the table. Once, when Mr. Popple dropped the bag into his tin cup with a splash, a few small sounds of choked mirth were actually heard! Unfortunately, however, as mealtimes grew to be sunnier and sunnier occasions, the atmosphere around the head of the table grew darker and darker and frostier and frostier, like a storm cloud building up over the North Pole.
This worried Emily, but she could not see how Mrs. Meeching could possibly lock someone in the Remembrance Room for finishing a bowl of soup or a lump of bread, or for simply smiling. And Clarabelle remained safely hidden. Emily had no idea how it was managed. It seemed a miracle to her that when she arrived for her chores each day, there was never a trace of Clarabelle’s existence anywhere. The kitten only appeared magically when it was determined that the approaching footsteps were Emily’s alone.
One day Emily was bursting with still more news for Kipper. Mr. Dobbs had said he wished he had a whittling knife and a small bit of wood so that he could carve a likeness of Clarabelle. Mrs. Quirk wished for colored wool and a square of canvas to cross stitch the picture of a kitten that would in time be made into a pillow for Clarabelle. And as for Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops, well, “Mrs. Poovey wants some watercolors to paint Clarabelle’s portrait, and Mrs. Loops would like paper, pen, and ink to write a story about her! Almost all the old people want to make something that has to do with Clarabelle. Isn’t that splendid, Kipper?”
“Splendid it may be, Emily,” Kipper said, “but who got the money to buy all them things? I ain’t got ’nough, even with my delivery jobs. I don’t much like asking Pa for it, him not exactly being a millionaire nor anything like that. And you certainly ain’t got any bankroll, Emily, as I can notice. So where would it come from?”
“I do have something!” Emily blurted out. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I—I have twenty gold coins!”
Kipper’s eyelids flew up so suddenly they almost lifted him off the floor. “Twenty gold coins? Come long, Emily, you ain’t got any such thing.”
“Yes, I do, Kipper! Aunt Twice and I hid them in—” Emily felt a firm hand clapped over her mouth.
“If you really do got any such pirate’s treasure,” Kipper said, scowling, “I don’t want any knowledge o’ where it’s hid. Suppose, just suppose someone was to take it. Who would you think done it? Why the one who knowed where it was, that’s who! But if you want to spend any o’ that loot on the old people
’s paints and wool and all them things, why you just give me one o’ them coins. It’ll last a month o’ Sundays. Then you just keep the rest close hidden, and don’t tell anybody ’bout it.”
So without even telling Aunt Twice, Emily carefully removed one gold coin from its hiding place in her mattress and gave it to Kipper. Soon carving, stitching and painting, modeling, weaving and crocheting were all busily embarked upon in the upper reaches of Sugar Hill Hall. Curiously, Emily never saw a trace of any of this activity going on, any more than she saw traces of Clarabelle. And yet when she arrived upstairs, Mr. Dobbs might show her a small piece of wood that was magically turning into a kitten, or Mrs. Quirk a whole square inch of cross stitches that somehow resembled a kitten’s ear, or Mrs. Poovey a beautiful painting that came closer and closer to being Clarabelle every day.
The excitement over Clarabelle, suppressed though much of it had to be, for a while managed to take Emily’s mind off the mysteries that shrouded the mansion. But they were like ghosts waiting in the wings, as in a play, for the right moment to reappear on the stage. And whenever Emily saw her pale, harried Aunt Twice, or received a trembling, secret smile from Mrs. Plumly, the ghosts were back to haunt her. She wanted desperately to tell them both about Clarabelle, but the two already shared a terrible secret. It would be cruel to bring another dangerous secret into their lives.
Emily saw no reason, however, why she should not visit Mrs. Plumly again, as invited, and she intended to do so. But she could never be certain when it was safe to knock on the closed door so the visit had not yet been paid. Then one day as she was climbing the stairs with her bucket, the door to Mrs. Plumly’s room swung open, and Mrs. Plumly peered out cautiously, beckoning Emily to enter her room.
“I think we can feel safe for a few moments,” she whispered. “Mrs. Meeching has gone out on an errand. I have some sad news, dear child, and I felt you should know of it. Mrs. Meeching has informed me that your trunks have been lost. Lost, hmmmph!” she said, sounding remarkably like Mrs. Poovey. “Stolen, more likely!”
Peppermints in the Parlor Page 9