by Maureen Lang
Katie’s shriek, delayed but not forgotten, erupted at that moment. Loud, clear as her voice always was, it echoed above all other discord.
Mrs. Cotgrave rushed from the dining room, and Berrie hastened to follow. She stopped only to leave one whimpering twelve-year-old with an attendant, taking with her the one who needed a cleaning. His keening grew in volume.
“Katie!” The stranger’s voice was nearer, a touch of desperation lending it more urgency than its loudness. “Katie MacFarland!”
“See here—” Mrs. Cotgtrave started out strong and strident, echoing down the hall, but stopped abruptly. “No need to be shouting down the halls, is there . . . sir?”
Berrie saw the stranger for the first time. No doubt fear took the gumption from Mrs. Cotgrave. Berrie felt an inkling of it herself in the intruder’s large, dark, Gaelic ruggedness. Had he called for Katie?
Surely he was Katie’s protector, sent by the English-fighting Irishman who thought women should work at home with babies at their feet. Blue eyes scanned the front hall like lightning bolts and stopped upon her. In those eyes she saw what appeared to be a mix of as much fury as worry. But the blue was somehow familiar. And worry? She knew her first moment of uncertainty. Had this man been sent by the brother . . . or was he the brother himself? God help them all.
“Where is she?”
“And you, I assume, have been sent by the MacFarland family?” Berrie asked. Granite stiffened her spine, determined not to have him guess the depth of her trepidation.
“Where is she?” He stepped forward, his body as well as his words demanding an answer. He looked past her, and his nose twitched, undoubtedly receiving the scent from the boy beside her. She knew this intruder couldn’t see more than the dim recess of the hall leading to the dining room. The boy beside Berrie cried louder. “And will you stop that racket?”
Yet another step brought the man close enough to fill Berrie’s entire line of vision, and the granite holding up her spine crumbled. She retreated, pulling the boy who was now howling nearer. She wanted to tell him where Katie was, but her voice seemed to have fled. Mrs. Cotgrave moved beside her and took the boy from Berrie’s protective embrace.
“This way, my boy,” Mrs. Cotgrave said, her voice once again her own as she guided him away.
“Simon, is that you?”
Katie’s voice rose above the din from the dining room. In the twinkling of an eye, the man went from irate to eager. Pushing past Berrie, he rushed toward Katie’s just-emerging shadow, stopping within a hair’s breadth of her. His arms went out, then fell back to his side. Berrie sensed that he would have clutched Katie to himself but knew what Berrie had learned: She didn’t like to be touched. By flour or humans. Not even by her brother, who this man must surely be.
“Katie! Are you well?”
“Can you help me with my apron? I don’t want to wear it anymore.” She turned around, saying over her shoulder, “It’s noisy here.”
Berrie rushed down the hall toward them. The noise in the dining room was just beginning to ease with Daisy and Charles taking their charges to the kitchen. Soon all that remained were four boys resuming their meal, a single attendant with them, and Katie’s two female students, both of whom had stopped crying and were now eating as if nothing had ever been amiss.
With her wet apron removed, Katie was smiling. “These are Annabel and Tessie, my two students.” No one acknowledged the introduction. Annabel kept rocking and eating; Tessie, humming and staring.
“Katie, I’ve been worried about you.” The man’s voice was unsteady even as he stood behind her when she took a seat to finish her lunch. “Why did you leave without telling me where you went?”
“Our sister said she would tell you about my job, that you would be happy because I am working, like you. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.” He still held the soiled apron as Katie looked down to inspect her unsullied lap. He appeared uncertain what to do with the damp garment, and Berrie found her wits at last, holding out a hand to take it from him.
“Perhaps we can sit in the visiting room,” Berrie suggested, after a silent prayer of gratitude that the mayhem had ended. Ned, the sole male attendant left in the room, would be all right now that the meal was almost at an end. Mrs. Cotgrave was bound to return at any moment.
Berrie led Katie and her brother to the room where families said their good-byes to the students they left behind. Even in so short a time, Berrie had seen a wide range of emotions from the students, from indifference to abject terror, heartfelt grief to a simple, happy wave. She had no idea how either this man or Katie would behave or if this was to be a good-bye between the two of them or between her and Katie.
Once inside the parlor, Katie stood near the fireplace and smiled. Without looking Berrie’s way, the man spoke over his shoulder. “I’d like to be alone with my sister if you don’t mind.”
Berrie looked at Katie, hesitant to instantly do the man’s bidding.
“Miss Berrie is my friend, Simon,” Katie said. “She’s from England, but she isn’t a tyrant at all. She doesn’t try to push me down or take anything from me, not food or anything I brought along. Are you sure the English are so horrible, Simon? I tried to hate her when she told me she was from England, but it was too late because she was already my friend. I only found out she was from England a few days ago. Mrs. Cotgrave is from there too, and even though she’s not very pretty, she’s been nice to me too.”
“I’m glad, Katie.” Then he shot a cursory glance Berrie’s way. “Will you leave us, then?”
“Of course.”
She moved toward the door and Katie spoke. “You shouldn’t send her away, Simon. She’s my friend.”
As Berrie closed the door behind her, she heard Simon say, “I’m glad. Now I want you to tell me the truth, just as I always tell you. Has anyone hurt you while you’ve been away?”
Berrie closed the door. She didn’t need to listen any longer. Katie never told a lie.
15
* * *
Rebecca watched from the corner of the gallery. It was a long, rather narrow room, full of family portraits and a sampling of artwork from Renaissance to Impressionism, the obscure to the famous. Famous works included paintings by Rubens and Monet, and English works by Gainsborough and Hogarth—a collection of those artists rivaled only by the museum at Cambridge.
It wasn’t the artwork that kept her eye this afternoon; rather, it was Quentin, greeting a group of tourists who had just finished the house and garden tour. They’d come from the golden parlor, where Edward VII, still known at the time as the Prince of Wales, had come to pay respects when Peter Hamilton had died in 1900, publicly acknowledging Peter’s donation to the advancement of science through his many fossil donations to the London museum. The tour finished in the gallery, where they were just now.
In the past two weeks Quentin had taken up the surprising recreation of mingling with those who visited Hollinworth Hall. Rebecca enjoyed the tours as never before, seeing Quentin take pleasure in them too. If it was his hope to prove to her he had less of his mother and more of his father in him, that ploy was entirely successful.
Although Quentin had moved to the cottage two weeks ago, his mother was not there when he’d arrived, having left for a friend’s villa in Spain. With her gone and Quentin content to join Rebecca in the quiet country life the Hall offered, it was easy to forget the society he was part of. Dwindling fast were her worries that any outside influence could keep them apart. Every morning he greeted her with a smile, and every evening he kissed her good night until her head spun. Every moment spent in his company added to the hope he’d ignited, amassing an inventory of fuel that could last a lifetime.
Quentin seemed to enjoy extending the time visitors stayed at the Hall. He laughed with older tourists about the nicknames some of his forebears held. The first Hollinworth who’d married the last of the Hamiltons was tall and thin and called Piper because he reminded everyone of a pipefish, or so the story we
nt. Another was called No-Beacon Bill because during the war he’d been the one to make sure household lights couldn’t be seen by the occasional German bomber. He’d purchased black blinds for the entire village and made after-dark rounds himself—without a beacon to light his way.
Quentin told stories with something Rebecca couldn’t possibly expect to emulate: the authority of a family member whose favorite tales had been passed down from one generation to the next.
Rebecca approached him as the others exited, and he slipped an arm about her shoulders. She couldn’t help being thankful the bus would take away the last of the camera-carrying guests. She wasn’t ready for pictures yet.
“Tomorrow we meet your American cousin,” Rebecca reminded him. The last two weeks had flown by.
He pulled her closer, kissing her ear. “I’d forgotten. There is a world out there, isn’t there? One not restricted to a two-hour tour.”
She trembled at his kiss. “I haven’t finished transcribing Berrie’s letters yet.”
He kissed her again. “You can e-mail them to my cousin when they’re ready.”
Part of her heard their conversation. A greater part was aware only of his kiss.
Reluctantly, Rebecca pulled herself away, gazing at the portraits representing three centuries of his lineage. “What would they say if they could look down upon us now, Quentin? Most of them were served by one relative of mine or another.”
“They can’t very well tell us, now can they? My guess is if they could see us together and had half a heart, they’d tell me to keep kissing you.”
He moved to do just that, and Rebecca meant to pull away again, to keep a rein on how they spent their time. It was too easy to be swept away.
“Hold there, sir! You’ll miss the bus, duck.”
Helen’s voice penetrated the haze enveloping Rebecca, who turned to the sudden commotion from the hall leading into the gallery. There stood Helen, a look of alarm growing on her face as she pointed to a man snapping a series of pictures. The shutter of the camera was pointed directly toward Rebecca in Quentin’s arms.
In an instant Rebecca freed herself. The reporter shot off, Quentin on his heels. The two collided at the door leading from the gallery, Quentin landing atop the man’s outstretched arm as he strove to keep his camera from reach. If ever there was cause to believe in the innate nobility of the man, she didn’t doubt Quentin now, though she doubted seeing him wrestling a reporter would cause anyone except her to think such a thing. Quentin twisted the camera from the wiry man and in moments had an electronic cartridge in his hand.
“If you’d prefer not to be arrested, you’ll take what’s left of your camera and leave,” Quentin said, only slightly out of breath and agilely returning to his feet.
The man reclaimed his digital camera, now empty of its photo card. It looked like any tourist’s. He inspected it for damage, then eyed the card Quentin held in his hand.
“I have a week’s worth of work on that.”
“I’ll have it scanned and anything offensive removed before returning it. Which paper?”
The man told him that and his name, shuffling to his feet. He was gone before Quentin was back at Rebecca’s side.
She would never have expected the grandson of a viscount, nephew to the Earl of Eastwater, son to Lady Elise Hollinworth, to go to such trouble. But he had. For her.
16
* * *
I must confess, Cosima, that in those first few moments after meeting Simon MacFarland, I wondered if their family might share your so-called curse. Not that he seemed feebleminded, or that Katie doesn’t have an excellent vocabulary. I wondered if he might be just a bit unstable, not only from his actions but his inability to meet my gaze. However, the moment after rejoining them, I knew I was wrong. He studied me with such scrutiny I knew he at least did not share Katie’s penchant to avoid looking into my eyes. I tried so hard to remember he had been frantic with worry and to excuse his forceful behavior because of that.
“Miss . . . Berrie?”
Berrie looked at him, wondering what he saw as he looked at her so closely for the first time. Someone who’d taken advantage of his sister, forcing Katie to work when she would be better off in his home? Or would he give her the benefit of the doubt and let Berrie, and even Katie, help him form an opinion?
She held out her hand. “My name is Beryl Hamilton, and I am the headmistress here at Escott Manor. I assume you haven’t been sent by Simon MacFarland but are indeed him?”
He nodded.
“And so you received my note?”
“This morning.”
“I’m unfamiliar with much of Ireland, Mr. MacFarland. Daisy, the housemaid who was hired by your other sister, said your home was north of Dublin. How far have you come, then?”
“I came by my fastest horse. Less than three hours’ ride.” He stepped closer. His size alone would have intimidated her, even without the scowl on his face. “Do you have any idea how frantic a family can be, not knowing what’s become of one of its own?”
The accusation was clear. “I can imagine it’s quite a horrid feeling, Mr. MacFarland. I am truly grieved that your sister chose to deceive you as to Katie’s whereabouts.”
If he had hoped to ascribe any of the blame to Berrie, he must have abandoned that plan upon hearing her words. His broad shoulders, covered in a black broadcloth jacket that seemed to stretch beyond the width for which it was sewn, slumped to a better fit. “I apologize for her behavior, Miss Hamilton. Innis’s act was unforgivable, and I imagine you were also affected by her thoughtlessness.”
“We’re happy to have Katie stay, Mr. MacFarland, only there are proper procedures for all of our students.”
“She won’t be staying in this bedlam. My carriage will be here shortly.”
Berrie grazed her fingertips to palms, resisting a full clench. She would not be offended by his choice of words. He had, after all, come upon one of the more uproarious scenes even she had witnessed since they’d started the school. “I understand if you’d rather take Katie home; however, I’d hardly term it bedlam here.”
He eyed her for the second time with such probing intensity she knew a moment of discomfort. “All the more reason for me to take her home, if you’re so immune to what this place is. What I came upon in there—” he cocked his head toward the door—“was bedlam, pure and simple. I’ll not leave my sister to such a place as this—a stinking pit.”
“Granted,” Berrie said with one nod, recalling all too vividly the scent he was greeted with, “it was a bit noisy, but if you’ll revisit the dining room . . .”
He was already approaching Katie. Berrie narrowed her eyes. Never in her life had she been treated with such outright disrespect.
“We’ll be going home now, Katie-sis.”
Upon those words Katie’s head shot up. She smiled. “Oh, I like it when you call me that, Simon. Why don’t you call me that more often? When I was littler you used to call me that all the time.”
“Our carriage will be here soon, and we’ll be going home.”
Katie shook her head. “No, Simon. I work here, and to work here you must live here. I take care of others day and night.”
“You needn’t work, Katie. You have a home with me.”
“But only Miss MacFarland is there all the time, and she doesn’t like me.”
“Innis is getting married, Katie,” Simon said, “so you needn’t worry about annoying her any longer. In just a few weeks she’ll be living in her own home.”
“Oh.” The single word carried neither approval nor surprise. “But, Simon, you’re not at home very much, so I prefer to live here anyway, because I like to work.”
Simon neared his sister. “We’ll talk about this at home.”
Katie was shaking her head before he’d said more than a few words. “We can talk here.” She looked at Berrie. “Will you tell him, Miss Berrie, how I have certain jobs? how I take care of Annabel and Tessie? I’m teaching Annabel to write and
Tessie to sing. She already knows how to hum. Besides, I cannot leave, or there will be an empty bed in our room.”
“You must do as your brother says, Katie,” Berrie told her. She wanted to sound kind, even encouraging, yet this man made it difficult to lend him much support, even if he was doing the right thing. The legal thing, at any rate. “Remember when you first came, we talked about the papers we all need to stay here? If your brother doesn’t wish to sign the papers, you cannot stay.”
Katie stood face-to-face with her brother, but Berrie could see Katie didn’t look him in the eye either. “You’ll sign the papers, won’t you, Simon?”
Berrie fully expected Katie to go on, because she hardly ever spoke in single sentences, but she stopped, as if even she knew the importance of that one question.
Those shoulders on the tall Irishman had lost their breadth but now stretched again with a deep sigh. “I thought you were happy at home, Katie.”
“I’m happy here.” Her tone indicated she’d kept to her policy of telling the truth.
Berrie saw his struggle. So far, she’d seen only families who thought of Escott Manor as an answer to prayer, a haven for their child, a respite for the families themselves, if only for a year or two. What must this brother be thinking, knowing nothing of her, of this school, of what they hoped to achieve?
“Mr. MacFarland,” she said gently, “perhaps Katie and I might tell you what it’s like here, so when you have your discussion—whether it’s here or at home—the answer will be easier.”
“For whom?” he asked coldly. “Me or Katie?”
“I hope for both.” Then another thought struck her. If he’d been riding all morning, he was probably hungry. Every man she’d grown up with was grumpy when hungry. “Would you like something to eat? Our food is simple, but we have enough.”
“No,” he said, adding, “I’ve no wish to stay, and less than that do I want to revisit that dining hall.”
“You came upon us at a challenging moment. I assure you not all of our meals are as unruly as the one you witnessed. By way of explanation I can only offer that our school has recently opened, and we’re all adjusting to—”