There was no one in the hallway. Had the door simply opened itself?
Maybe it was the ghost of Sir Godfrey Rogers's dead mistress, I told myself and laughed.
Still, it seemed oddly quiet. Not a creak in the old house, nothing and no one moving. I watched and waited until I felt a chill run through me from the colder air in the hallway and then I shut the door, dried myself off, emptied the tub, got into my nightgown and returned to my room.
Maybe because of the little scare, I didn't feel tired enough to just close my eyes and go to sleep. I turned on the weak lamp and read some more of my play. After a few pages, something outside my window attracted my attention. I thought I heard footsteps. I closed the book and turned off the light. Then I went to the window and peered out.
It was a partly cloudy evening with the moon and some clouds playing peekaboo. The yellow light illuminated the pathway around the house and for a moment, I thought I saw the silhouette of someone walking slowly. It disappeared with the moonlight and then when the cloud moved away and the illumination fell from the night sky again, I saw a deep, dark shadow take the form of a man who entered the little cottage. Moments later, a light went on. I waited and watched. Was it Boggs? Leo?
Footsteps in the hallway spun me around. I kept myself perfectly still, listening. The steps stopped by my door for a moment and then continued on until the sound of them faded away. I heard another door slam and then it was quiet.
I turned back to the cottage. The moon went in and out of the clouds again. When there was some light, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone else moving toward the cottage. This person looked very small. I strained to see. It looked like a little girl. That was my last thought as the moon was turned off like a light by the heavier clouds that tumbled across the sky and settled the night into deep and thick darkness that would last until the morning.
Silhouettes appeared in the windows of the cottage, one shadowy figure so much smaller than the other. I saw them close to each other and than apart and then they disappeared deeper into the cottage. I waited and watched the window until my eyes grew tired and my lids felt heavy.
So someone is using the supposedly off-limits cottage, I thought. So what? I've got enough to think about without adding any additional problems and mysteries. I retreated from the window and went back to my bed, finally feeling myself drift off, but hearing what sounded like those soft footsteps outside again. They died away as I settled myself into the arms of sleep.
Boggs was up before my alarm went off. I heard his heavy footsteps outside my door. Didn't the man ever sleep? I wondered. How could anyone take his kind of work so seriously and with such commitment? He acted as if this was Buckingham Palace and my great-aunt and great-uncle were really the king and the queen of England. I had noticed how he walked through the house every day, sometimes twice a day, inspecting everything. He seemed to know exactly where each piece of furniture belonged. If so much as an ashtray was out of place, he stopped to set it right. When I mentioned that to Mrs. Chester and Mary Margaret Saturday morning at breakfast, Mrs. Chester nodded and then laughed and said, "Wait until you see the white glove."
The white glove? I wondered. I didn't have to wait long to learn the meaning of that.
Right after we had our breakfast, Mary Margaret and I went to work dusting and polishing. As we started out of the drawing room after completing it, Boggs stepped in front of us at the door. I was on my way to clean the bathroom by the billiards room as he had ordered.
"Just a moment," he said.
We paused and watched as he dug into his jacket pocket to produce a white glove. He slipped it on his right hand and entered the drawing room.
"What's he doing?" I asked Mary Margaret.
She just shook her head as if our speaking to each other while Boggs was present was another prohibition.
Boggs went to the tables and ran his gloved hand up and down the legs. He looked at the palm of the glove and then did the same with the chairs, the tops of tables and the sides of the furniture. He went behind a small table, wiped his hand over the rear of it and then turned to us, his white gloved hand open, a smudge of dust across the palm.
"Well?" he said.
Mary Margaret rushed back in and quickly dusted and polished behind the table. He stood by, his arms folded, watching her.
"You expect us to get every spot in the room?" I asked him.
"Mr. and Mrs. Endfield expect it. I simply make sure," he replied. He gazed around, nodded and left the room to wait at the door of the billiards room.
"My brother probably has it easier in the army," I told Mary Margaret.
I didn't need Boggs looking over my shoulder to clean a bathroom properly. I had done it enough times in my life, but he managed to find places I didn't get to, places I never imagined anyone would look at or care about anyway. He appeared to have a good supply of fresh white gloves. Every time he found some dirt or grime, he showed it to me or to Mary Margaret and then replaced his glove to inspect again and again.
With him snapping a whip like a slave master, it took much longer than I had anticipated to complete the morning chores. When I was finally finished, I had barely enough time to get back to my room and change my clothes, much less fix my hair the way I had wanted it before Randall arrived.
I rushed back to the front of the house only to confront Boggs once again.
"There's a young man waitin' on you," he said. "Anyone who comes to see a servant waits outside," he added. "Next time be here to greet 'im yourself."
"I would have if I hadn't had to locate every particle of dust in this house," I muttered.
"Just do your job properly and save your complaints," he returned.
I couldn't wait to get out of the house. Just being in the same room with him made me choke and ray lungs ache as if there was a lack of oxygen.
Randall was standing on the driveway, trying to look at ease. Who knew what Boggs had said to him? I thought.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting out here. I just found out that's one of the house rules, guests of servants aren't permitted to wait inside." I glared back at the front door. "I'm lucky he lets me breathe."
"That's all right. It's a nice enough day," he said and stood there gazing at me so intently, I couldn't help but be self-conscious about the way I looked.
He was wearing a light cotton turquoise sweater, a white shirt and jeans. The turquoise made his eyes even more radiantly blue. There was a soft breeze that made some thin strands of his brown hair lift and fall over his forehead.
"I probably look a mess," I said running my hand over my hair. "With that ogre standing over me, it took longer than I anticipated to finish the housework. I had to rush to get dressed."
I had put on a pair of jeans and a button-down short-sleeve blouse. On the way out of the room, I grabbed my light-blue leather jacket. Now, it felt too heavy, but I dreaded going back into the house. Boggs would probably be standing in the hallway, waiting to quote some rule about entering and leaving more than once a day, if you were a servant.
"You look great," Randall said, flashing his soft smile. He nodded to reassure me he meant it.
I did have the feeling that when he said something, he really meant it. There was a quality of freshness and innocence about him. I didn't sense that edge, that harder, wiser and even tougher outlook on life that I had seen in most of the boys I knew. He wasn't afraid or insecure enough to want to shade every remark, guard every look. He looked as if he was doing everything for the very first time, too.
He dug into his back pocket and brought out a brochure that he opened and held out for me to read.
"This lists the must-see attractions. We're here," he said pointing to the map. "We should go first to Buckingham Palace and then we can go up to Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery. What time do you have to be back?" he asked and suddenly a small alarm went off inside me.
Was I supposed to be back for dinner or did I get some tim
e off? My great-aunt hadn't told me and I certainly didn't feel like asking Boggs.
"I don't know," I said.
His smile froze.
"What do you mean?"
"I never told Mrs. Endfield where I was going. I don't know if she expects me here later to help with the dinner. I'm sorry," I said. "I'll have to go back inside and see if I can find out."
"Oh. That's okay. I'll wait," he said.
"I'll be as quick as I can," I told him and hurried into the house.
I expected Boggs would pop out of a room or out from under some table as he usually did, but he wasn't anywhere in sight. With Mrs. Chester out and Mary Margaret doing some shopping for her at the greengrocer's, the house was quiet. I thought for a moment, wondering if I should just leave a note for my great-aunt. It didn't really answer the question, however, so I started up the stairs to see if Great-aunt Leonora was in her suite.
When I drew close to the bedroom door, I heard what sounded like someone humming a children's song. There was even a laugh, a laugh that resembled the laughter of a small girl. I stood there a moment longer and then I knocked.
"Mrs. Endfield? Mrs. Endfield, it's Rain. May I speak with you a moment, please?" I asked through the door.
The humming stopped. I waited and then I knocked softly again.
"Mrs. Endfield?"
The silence was confusing. I knew I had heard a voice on the other side of the door. I waited and then, I decided to knock once more, a little harder. When I did, the door opened a few inches.
"Mrs. Endfield?"
Again, I was greeted with silence. I leaned forward and peered into the room. My great-aunt was sitting in a rocking chair with her back to me. Her head was down, and she was holding something in her arms. I was about to call out her name, when I felt a large, strong hand grab my shoulder and spin me around.
It was Boggs. Before he spoke, he reached past me for the doorknob and closed the door sharply.
"How dare you go snooping around like this?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"I wasn't snooping. I knocked and I called for Mrs. Endfield. The door swung open so I looked in for her, that's ail," I protested. Surely by now my great-aunt had heard the commotion and would come to the door, I thought. I hoped she would, for Boggs was towering over me with eyes that shot fire at my face.
"What do you want 'ere? I thought you were going out for the day," he said.
"First, if you must know, I wanted Mrs. Endfield to know I was going and second, I wanted to see if she wanted me back to help with dinner," I explained.
"You don't ask 'er that. You ask me. Don't you listen? You was told that already. I already told 'er you was goin' out for the day," he said. "And as for your services, if you were required to be 'ere, I'd a told you that, too. You don't 'afta worry about that."
"Fine," I said. "Then I'm going."
His eyes followed me closely as I walked around him and to the stairs. I didn't look back, but I blew he was standing right there, watching me descend. My heart was thumping and a cold sweat had broken out over my brow and down the back of my neck. I practically ran out of the house.
Randall, who was leaning against the garden wall, straightened up immediately. I hurried to him.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"No. Let's just go," I said. "Quickly."
He was nearly jogging to keep up with me. Finally, he reached out and took me by the elbow.
"Hold on. You're beating the hell out of this street and you're not even going in the right
direction."
"What? Oh? What is the right direction?" I asked, sounding frantic.
He nodded in the opposite direction.
"Did that guy yell at you or something? I hope I didn't cause any trouble."
"No. Forget it," I said, "It has nothing to do with you." He shrugged.
"Okay. We could continue and walk through the Gardens," he said, "and then catch a taxi to Buckingham, unless you want to stop at Harrod's first and see the world's most famous department store."
"Let's take it a step at a time," I said. "We'll walk through the Gardens first. I'd like to just breathe some fresh air."
"Okay. You're right. We've got lots of time. We're going to be in London quite a while."
"Maybe," I said under my breath. "Maybe you will, but I won't."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. I'm just babbling. Don't pay any attention to me."
I looked back in the direction of the house. Why hadn't my Great-aunt Leonora acknowledged me? She had to have heard all that noise. I had knocked loud enough to wake the infamous ghost of Sir Rogers's mistress.
And where had Boggs come from so quickly? What did he do all day, wait in the shadows?
Why did he want to keep me from seeing and speaking to my great-aunt? More importantly, perhaps, what was she holding in her arms?
At the bottom of my stomach, a small trickle of ice water began to run into my veins. There was something here, something even my grandmother didn't know about, I thought, or she surely wouldn't have sent me.
5
Outcasts in London
.
As we walked through the park, Randall played
the tour guide. He read and spoke in a thick British accent, pretending to be a stuffy English lord, or as Mrs. Chester would say, "a chinless wonder."
He pulled his head back so that he could talk down at me with a lot of nasality.
"Kensington Gardens, adjacent to Hyde Park, was originally Kensington Palace's front yard, yes? Kensington Palace was originally called Nottingham House. It passed into royal ownership in 1689 when it was acquired by William and Mary. The King's asthma dictated a move from Whitehall Palace to the healthier air of Kensington, yes?
"Go on, take deep breaths," he said, taking big ones himself. "There, you see'? One breath and all the soot is gone from your lungs," he declared. "Go on," he urged me.
"I don't have any soot in my lungs, thank you," I said.
He continued to read from his guidebook.
"After William III's death in 1702 the palace became the residence of Queen Anne. Christopher Wren designed the Orangery for her and a thirty-acre garden was laid out by Henry Wise.
"The last monarch to live at Kensington Palace was George II, whose consort, Caroline of Ansbach, influenced the development of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Consort?"
He stopped and thought. Then he smiled.
"Do you realize if it wasn't for his lover, this might not be here?" he asked. "Thank heaven for little girls, eh?" he sang now in a French accent.
People on both sides of us stopped to look and listen, their faces filling with smiles. His voice could carry across the city, I thought. How quickly he took me out of nay dark mood. We were both laughing by the time we reached the famous Round Pond where two little boys were sailing their toy boats. Randall suggested we stop and just sit on the grass and watch for a while. I sat, embracing my knees and gazing around at the beautiful flowers. Except for the laughter and shouts of the children, there was little noise. How far away my troubled world seemed now.
Randall had a wistful smile on his face as he watched the little boys run aotut the pond. He reminded me of an old man dreaming he was young again.
"What's it like where you come from?" I asked.
"Toronto? We live in a fashionable part of the city. I always attended private schools, just as my sister and brother do now. As I told you, Dad's a successful stockbroker with clients as far away as Hong Kong."
"And your mother?"
Mothers intrigued me far more than fathers at the moment, perhaps because my real one had turned out to be such a disappointment.
"My mother is an artist," he said playing with a blade of grass as if it was a paintbrush.
"Really?"
"Well, she wants to be. She has sold paintings and some small sculptures, but mostly to friends of the family. One of the galleries in Toronto featured her work a year ago." He smile
d. "I think Dad had something to do with that. If my mother knew or even suspected, she would have pulled her work out in a New York minute."
"New York minute?"
"Don't you know that expression? Dad's always using it. It means faster than anywhere else, I suppose because New Yorkers are always in a rush." He tilted his head. "Haven't you ever been to New York and been banged around by people hurrying down the sidewalks?"
"No? You've come to London, England, but you've never been to New York?" he asked astounded.
"I didn't always have these opportunities," I said. "For me, going to New York was about as difficult as going to London"
"Huh? I don't understand."
He waited as I carefully constructed my words. I knew what he was thinking. If I was attending such an expensive school in England, why was I so underprivileged in America?
"I'm part of a program sponsored by wealthy people, a charity. You could say I won the lottery or something," I added.
"You mean you won a contest where the prize was going to school in London?"
"Something like that."
"So it's like a scholarship? Did you perform something? Sing something in order to win it?"
"I performed," I said, feeling bitterness like rot in an apple spread through me and my memories. "I'm still performing."
He looked even more confused.
"Something's being lost in the translation here," he said shaking his head.
I fixed my eyes on him. I could feel the heat in them myself, cooking up the memories I would have rather left on the shelf.
"I come from a very poor neighborhood in Washington, D.C. My family lived in governmentsubsidized housing, in apartments called the projects."
"What about your parents?"
"My father was a drunk and always lost his job or wasted his money. My mother worked in a supermarket."
He nodded, but I had a feeling that what I was describing was so far out of his experience, it was as if I was telling him the plot of a science fiction movie.
Hudson 02 Lightning Strikes Page 8