by Harriet Hahn
James appeared on the aisle and walked beside me, rubbing my leg occasionally, and together we shortly came upon a most unusual monument. Here was Colonel Hargrave. Unlike almost every other hero and heroine who are buried here, whose tombs feature weeping angels or mourning relatives, the marble colonel was leaping out of his grave with an exultant grin on his face. One arm was raised over his head, pulling aside his shroud, and one leg was protruding from his coffin. Here was the colonel resurrected. James and I stood and stared. Then James disappeared. The monument, in once-white marble, was beautifully executed by a very skillful artist.
As I watched, puffs of dust rose from the back of the statue and shortly a grey cat appeared, lying on the marble drapery of the shroud which the colonel’s arm was pushing away. He waved a paw at me. I waved back.
“Look it over very carefully,” I said. “I will try to take a picture, but the light is terrible here and a flash will make odd shadows.”
James appeared and disappeared, dust puffs rose in the damp air and from time to time a pair of golden eyes gleamed at me. I took some pictures and made notes in my notebook. I wondered if there might be a terra-cotta model of this exuberant vision of the resurrection.
James was sitting on the colonel’s shoulder gently patting his naked marble chest when I heard footsteps behind me.
“I’ve had enough,” I said in a loud voice apparently to the air as James slipped up beside me and we left the Abbey.
On the way back I dropped off the film I had taken to be developed, and James and I parted company until the afternoon when Peter Hightower came by, suitcase in hand. At four o’clock a station wagon drew up at the entrance to Baron’s and we waved from our window at Weatherby, the Haverstock chauffeur, a rangy man who drives with great skill, has great personal dignity and only barely tolerates James, because James tries to show him how to drive by putting a paw on his arm when the speed of the car is not to his liking. However, once we were all on our way, Peter in the back and James and I in the front, James curled up in my lap and went to sleep.
Haverstock Hall, the seat of the earls of Haverstock since sometime in the sixteenth century, is surrounded by extensive grounds, some parts of which have been left wild. It is next to the village of Haverstock, a pleasant place with one small hotel, shops, a post office and a small but choice old church where Helena and Lord Henry were married a little over a year ago. The Hall itself has been added to and subtracted from and rearranged to suit the fantasies of each particular earl in turn since the original building was started in 1543. It is approached by car up a drive of about a quarter of a mile from the main road, and as we came up this drive, I woke James. He peered out the window as Weatherby made a flourishing stop in front of the broad stone steps that led to the massive front door, which was open. There to greet us with open arms was Lord Henry Haverstock, a short greying man of about fifty-five, with a stocky, vigorous body and lively grey eyes. He was dressed as usual in an old tweed jacket and a pair of baggy pants. Beside him was Helena, who is an accomplished artist. Today, as usual, she was wearing a grey smock and white duck pants. At this time in their lives, Lord Henry and Helena were particularly happy with each other and the world, and they radiated this happiness to all their friends.
James jumped out of the car as soon as I opened the door and streaked to Helena’s open arms. While James regards Lord Henry as his peer and friend, he is totally in love with Helena. She cuddled him happily, greeted us all and we were ushered into the house while Wilson, the Haverstock butler, supervised our bags and Weatherby took the car away.
Lord Henry, Helena, Peter and I repaired to the library, the favorite room in the house. It is not too big, it has a just-right fireplace, French doors onto a terrace, plenty of bookshelves and big, leather-covered furniture. Lord Henry has his desk here. Helena has a drawing table across the room from the desk. All the mementos that are particularly important to Lord Henry and Helena have found their way here. Over the fireplace is a portrait drawing of James, which Lord Henry bought at Helena’s first important show. There are books and magazines around and an air of comfort and contentment. The house has a great many other public rooms. There is the main drawing room, which once held uncomfortably formal French antique furniture. This furniture, much loved by Lord Henry’s older sister, Etheria, is now in her castle in Scotland. It has been replaced by somewhat more comfortable and less formal furnishings, but the room is still vast and is used only for large receptions. The state dining room is also used only on special occasions, and a much smaller room, which at one time was a morning room, has been turned into the family dining room, as it is near the kitchen and pantries. There are numerous bedrooms, small sitting rooms, nurseries, and even attics. There is also a great hall at the entrance with a grand stairway curving up to the second floor.
James had left us once we were in the hall because he loves the house, and each time we come he rushes off on a tour of the premises to see what changes have been made since his last visit.
So the four of us sat happily in the library, glad of a fire, even in May. Wilson appeared with a tray on which were all our favorite tipples. Behind him came a footman pushing a trolley with various concoctions Cook thought might tempt us before dinner. A saucer was provided for James, who joined us shortly. He curled up next to Helena and grinned at her.
It was time to catch up.
“Well,” Peter chuckled, looking happily at Helena. “When is the big event?”
James looked puzzled. Helena and Lord Henry laughed together.
“So you noticed,” said Lord Henry. “I thought the smock covered her pretty well.”
“So did I,” said Helena, laughing. “I’ve got about four months to go, and I didn’t think I showed that much.”
“You look wonderful,” said Peter. “But I’ve been around a bit and I have learned to recognize that really special glow.”
James was now really frustrated. He turned from Helena to Peter and at last he patted Helena’s arm sharply.
“Sorry, James dear,” she said. “I see you don’t understand. Henry and I are going to have a baby. That is, I am going to have the baby and Henry is its father.”
James still looked puzzled. Helena took his front paw and held it against her abdomen. Suddenly he jerked away and looked intently at a spot on her smock.
“You felt it, did you?”
James looked more and more suspicious.
“Here,” she said, and picked him up and laid him on her abdomen. He was tense. He moved uneasily. He made little movements as though he were adjusting to uneven ground. Every once in a while he would jump a little.
Helena held him firmly. “What you are feeling is the next heir to the earldom squirming around inside me. The baby will keep growing until it is big enough and then it will be born and we will all see it and love it. Till then, I am its custodian.”
Helena released James. He slid off her and onto the sofa next to her. He shrugged his shoulders. Then he shook his head. Clearly he thought this was a most inefficient system. He snuggled next to Helena and gave her abdomen a furtive glance from time to time.
Meanwhile, we had gone on to hear about Helena and Lord Henry’s trip to Gibraltar and their return to Haverstock Hall, where Helena had made many changes, all of them designed to make the Hall a warm and welcoming place. She had happily turned the day-to-day management over to Wilson, who was as delighted in his new mistress as she was in him. Wilson has been the butler at the Hall for at least twenty years. He has been devoted to Lord Henry since the beginning, and it was with the greatest pleasure that he saw Etheria replaced by Helena. Wilson supervises the footmen and maids, who do the work of the house. Wilson is short and round. He can be a sympathetic friend and a demanding supervisor. He regards James as one of the privileged class, but I notice that James never teases Wilson. In the kitchen Cook reigns and a wonderful cook she is. She and Helena plan the meals. Helena often likes to do the marketing as it takes her to the vil
lage, where she has been warmly welcomed by tradespeople, clergy and gentry alike. In the west wing of the Hall, Helena has set up a studio where she works at her painting nearly every day. Lord Henry has a keen interest in history and has begun to write monographs. He and Peter share an interest in the details of life and commerce in the eighteenth century.
Peter recounted his travels, which were many and varied. I reported on my search for a perhaps nonexistent statuette.
“I’ll bet you find it,” said Helena. “I’ll bet you a pound you find one before the heir arrives.” James had been listening. He tapped her on the arm and shook his head. “Not enough?” she said. James nodded. “Two pounds?” James shook his head and gestured higher. “A Helena Haakon painting?” James nodded.
“Done,” she said, and laughed.
“Now I’ll have to get it,” I said.
“Enough of this delightful conversation,” said our hostess. “I want to get to the real reason I asked you down for the weekend. I want you to make up a team with us to play in the Great Croquet Tournament, which will take place at Castle Falling next weekend.”
“I think I’ve heard of it, now you mention it,” said Peter. “Viscount Wilter gives it every year just before he opens the grounds of the castle to the public.”
“That’s it,” said Lord Henry. “Quite a lot of people participate and a great many people come to watch. The first prize is the honor of having your name engraved on one of the more elaborate trophies of the world, but the fun is in the game. I used to love it when I was young, but then when Etheria lived here she would not hear of our mingling with riffraff, as she called some of the players, and even though the viscountess was one of her best friends, Etheria flatly refused to have anyone from the Hall play in the tournament.”
James’s eyes looked cold. James is Etheria’s declared enemy and he is not fond of the viscountess.
“Glorious,” said Peter. “I love croquet, and it is one of the few games I can play at my age. By all means let’s enter.”
James looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry,” said Helena. “We’ll have a practice tomorrow morning and you will see it is an interesting game.” She stroked James lovingly.
Wilson announced dinner. We spent a happy evening. At last James and I went up to our room.
I lay in bed, ready to turn out the light. James was pacing around. At last he jumped on the bed and put a tentative paw on my stomach and looked at me inquiringly.
“No, James,” I said, laughing. “There is no baby inside me.” James grinned and jumped on my belly. Then he rolled up next to my ear and purred us both to sleep.
The next morning was a May morning to dream of. The sun sparkled, the air was soft and little breezes danced about. After breakfast the house party, Lord Henry, Helena, Peter, James and I, decided to walk to the village to mail the accumulated letters and see who was out and about.
As we walked down the principal street, stopped in the post office, greeted the postmistress and mailed out letters, Lord Henry and Helena met a number of people they knew. Then we stopped at the village green to greet the Honorable Fiona Wettin, who was there admiring the blossoming apple trees.
An austere woman of middle age, Fiona has the misfortune to be descended from some notable aristocrats. However, she has a very meager income to support her pretensions. At one time she and Etheria were very close friends and Fiona spent many a happy hour discussing the shortcomings of the village residents with Etheria. When Helena first came to Haverstock Hall as a guest, Fiona snubbed her coldly, following Etheria’s lead. However, to Fiona’s surprise, Helena married Lord Henry and became Lady Haverstock, and Etheria married the duke of Inverness and moved to his castle in Scotland. The Honorable Fiona was now in a delicate position.
“Good morning, Fiona,” called Helena.
James, who had been pretending to climb a tree, jumping at it and then falling back, stopped and turned to glare. James does not like Fiona.
Fiona blushed. She bobbed her tall frame up and down in what might be called an attempt at a curtsy and then stopped herself. “Good morning, Lady Haverstock,” she said uneasily.
“We are all on our way to the Buttery for morning coffee. Won’t you join us?” Helena called.
“Why, thank you,” said Fiona, striding up to join us. James glowered.
The Buttery is the village tearoom. We entered, and the six of us settled in at a table. Peter Hightower was introduced to Fiona, and James and I were acknowledged this time with a smile. We had met Fiona before. I smiled, James did not. Fiona greeted me with some warmth. After all, I am from another country. She gave James a look of deep suspicion.
“Does that cat go everywhere with you?” she asked me as a small carton was placed on a chair so James could reach the table. He sat on his box and viewed us all with great dignity.
“He’s one of my very best friends,” said Helena with a smile. “And he is always invited.”
Coffee was served and delicious cinnamon buns. James had a saucer of cream. By chance he was sitting with Helena on one side and Fiona on the other. I could not help but notice that James, who is usually the most fastidious of cats, was slurping the cream, and little drops were flying in Fiona’s direction.
“You aren’t entering the Great Croquet Tournament, are you?” asked Fiona, clearly expecting that the answer would be no.
“Indeed we are,” said Lord Henry. “Our team of four and our coach are right at this very table.”
“Well,” said Fiona, somewhat taken aback, “wait till Etheria hears this. We are entering, you know. The viscountess, Etheria, the Honorable Lucy Poole and I are a team. I have designed our uniforms.” She paused for a minute. “Who is your coach?” she asked.
“James,” said Lord Henry, looking very serious.
James looked up, startled. He had no idea what a coach was.
Fiona laughed, a full, happy, exultant laugh. “I wish you all the luck in the world,” she said. I felt she thought us no competition at all.
With that she stood up, picked up her handbag, brushed the tiny drops of cream off her tweed skirt and smiled graciously on us all. “Thank you for the delicious coffee,” she said, “and I look forward to seeing you on the playing fields of Castle Falling.” We all smiled. She turned to go, managing to bash James on the head with her handbag as she did so.
“Look here,” said Lord Henry, turning to Helena, “you certainly need not be pleasant to that woman. She certainly was unpleasant enough to you when you first came here.”
Helena reached over and patted Lord Henry’s hand. “I know that Etheria was not interested in mingling with the people in the village, but I love the village and all its inhabitants. I don’t want enemies and factions, so let’s make friends with Fiona. We won’t have her to dinner every night, but I think we might be pleasant.”
James was giving Helena his you-are-truly-odd look.
“I don’t ask you to like her,” she said to James, “but really it costs me nothing and it is funny seeing her struggle with my new status.”
“Come on,” said Peter Hightower, who had paid the bill and was growing anxious to leave, “we must get back to the Hall for a practice session. I’d like to beat that woman.”
In our absence, Wilson had set out a croquet court on the lawn beyond the terrace outside the library. After lunch we trooped outside to practice.
“James,” I said, “the object of this game is to hit the big wooden ball with this mallet through the hoops called wickets in the proper order and finally to hit this wooden stake. The first player to complete the course successfully wins the game. There are a lot of rules governing which player may hit another’s ball and when but we’ll find those out as we go along.”
He watched me as I shot a practice round. Then he got my attention, pointed to the stake at the end of the court. I placed my ball some distance away and aimed the mallet. James placed himself behind the stake and gestured with his tail to the left. I c
orrected the aim. He flicked a bit to the right. I had clearly gone too far. I made a correction. He nodded. I hit the ball, right on the mark but too hard. We tried again. I read the signals for direction and then, by flicking his tail back and forth, James gave me an approximation of the amount of force required. It worked. I hit the stake with just the right amount of impact.
The rest of the team assembled, and James and I showed them our system. There followed a period of intensive practice. Our most accurate player was clearly Helena. Before long she was reading the right speed and direction of the ball almost as well as James himself. Lord Henry and I were about on a par, while Peter had some problems because he is a little tubby. However, once we began to play, it became evident that Peter was by far the shrewdest strategist.
The weather held and except for attendance at church services Sunday morning, where James behaved to my surprise with great dignity until after the service, when he rode on my shoulder and waved to the congregation and patted the vicar on the head, we practiced croquet. We thought we were getting very good indeed.
James had made one significant discovery. The croquet ball was too large for him to move by pushing it with his front paws, but if he ran at it, he could move it, and if he leaned his haunch against it, he could displace the ball a short distance. However, playing with a croquet ball bored him. He preferred acting as our coach.
We returned to London Sunday night. Weatherby dropped James and me off at Baron’s. It had turned cool again and I made some hot chocolate, which James has taken a liking to, and we sat on the sofa to watch the late news.
“You are a great coach,” I said, stroking the sleek grey back.
James nodded. He knows how good he is but he does enjoy having someone else tell him.
There was a knock. It was Mrs. March.
“I hope James was not a nuisance this weekend,” she said.