by Joan Smith
When I found myself straying off to a tangent that revolved around Mr. Palin’s joy and gratitude at my discovery, I forced my thoughts back to Rosalie. Molly liked her. I would become a bosom bow of Molly, whom I preferred to Bess in any case. I would learn what either of them had to say of my sister. I would accept madame’s proffered friendship too, if she was serious about it. I would go to the village and meet Mr. Rupert. I would snoop through the house and I would find out the truth.
Only after this was all settled did I allow myself a moment to think again of Mr. Palin, and his sad eyes, inviting comfort. There is nothing so attractive as a sad man, nothing so natural to a woman as wanting to comfort him. And nothing so stupid in a servant as allowing herself to become besotted with her employer.
Chapter Seven
I was greatly disappointed the next day to learn Mr. Palin had gone to Tor Bay on some business connected with his summer house.
“He won’t be home till tomorrow,” Mrs. Steyne told me. “His wife is eager to have it finished by the spring, and winter is the best time to hire workmen. She is lonesome here, and he always does what he can to please her.”
“Did Mrs. Palin go with him? Perhaps I could speak to her.”
“No, she stayed home, because of the artist being here. She is in the drawing room with Arouet now. Martin took a load of gowns and gewgaws in for him to decide what she should wear.”
“Would you please ask her if I can see her when she is free? It is rather important.”
“Certainly I shall,” Mrs. Steyne agreed, the curiosity fairly leaping from her intelligent eyes. “I hope there is nothing wrong, Miss Bingham?”
“Oh no, it is good news. I have discovered Bobby is deaf.”
She blinked in confusion. “Poor wee tyke. I’d hardly call it good news.”
“Not totally deaf. My feeling is that his lack of proper speech is due to not hearing clearly. I think he is much more intelligent than anyone ever suspected.”
“I hope you may be right, dear,” she replied doubtfully. “It would be cruel to get his hopes up if you are not sure. Why don’t you work with Bobby a little, and be certain before you tell the Palins?”
“They have a right to know. Mrs. Palin particularly asked me to let her know at once if I discovered anything. They will want to consult a specialist, a doctor, I mean.”
“He’ll dash right off to London. It would be a pity to give him so much trouble for naught.”
I was about to brush her objections away, but was old enough to have learned the elderly possess wisdom. Maybe she was right. I was throwing myself into this thing too precipitately. Then too, they might decide to replace me with a person experienced in teaching the deaf, and I did not want that. I would work with Bobby for a week. If substantial progress was made, I would confront Mr. Palin with my proof.
I returned to the nursery and sat down, talking directly into Bobby’s good ear. I learned he had a mind like a steel trap. We got out books, alphabet books, with each letter illustrated by some object that began with it. Such simple items as apple, bear, cat, dog and so on. He could name very few of them. They were given as “eat now” (he used “now” often), nothing for bear, “Huck” for cat, and so on. With a little prompting, he knew a good half of them. I worked on his pronunciation, not letting him off any longer with “Bingie” and “eat now.” Apple he wished to term “app,” till I insisted on its full name. The morning passed quickly with this diversion.
It was tiring for us both. After lunch, I let him go to the stables, but to visit Mogol, not Mogo. I went to the kitchen to reveal my discovery to Cook and the girls, the only people who were half as impressed with my discovery as I was myself.
“I always thought he had it in him, the rascal,” Cook declared.
“We must stop spoiling him,” I said firmly. “Don’t hop when he bangs his mug on your table. Make him ask for his tea, and make him milk and sugar it himself too.”
“Did he use his fork?” Molly asked.
“Certainly he did. In future he will use it more effectively. I’ll make a gentleman of Master Robert if it kills me.”
“That’s a caution.” Cook smiled.
“Too bad he will be such a young gentleman, eh, Jane?” Bess said saucily. She made free of my first name without my asking her to. It was her way, forward.
When the dishes were done, Molly was free for a while. “Shall we go out for a walk?” I asked her.
She was flattered at the simple attention. Her pretty brown eyes flew to Cook, seeking approval. “Go ahead, but don’t get lost on them moors, and don’t be too late getting back. The real hard cold will soon be coming on. You girls might as well enjoy the outings while you can.”
I feared Bess might expect to come with us, but she was no lover of the outdoors. She went up to her room to rest.
Molly wrapped herself in a shaggy brown shawl that looked like a rug and made her look like an overgrown caterpillar. We walked first through the park, then ventured beyond, to the edge of the moors. The moors of Devon are a desolate sight in November, wildly rugged granite uplands, rutted with deep valleys. The heather, turned to black in the cold autumn, did little to lessen the austerity, or to add beauty. A few spindly trees struggled for existence at the moor’s edge. Farther on, there were no trees even.
“Once I went out on the moors with Rosalie,” Molly said, shivering, but whether it was the cold or the memory of the trip, I could not decide. “There’s strange things on the moors, Miss Bingham,” she said.
“Please call me Jane. What strange things were there?”
“There was stones, all laid in circles. Rosalie said they had been put there hundreds of years ago, maybe thousands.”
“Did you know Rosalie well?”
“She was the best friend I ever had,” she answered wistfully. “You remind me of her a bit, Miss—Jane. I hope we’ll be friends too. It’s lonesome here.”
“I’m sure we will. Did you two do things together, go places?”
“We went into town on Saturdays, and to church on Sunday. Mr. Palin let us go to some of the assemblies inWidecombe with the lads from the park. She was so pretty, all the fellows liked her, but she hadn’t eyes for any of them. She was always faithful to her fellow.”
“Oh, did she have a beau? How nice. Was he from around here?”
“From Widecombe, but Mrs. Palin didn’t like it. She wants all the fellows to like her. Mr. Rupert didn’t care for her in the least. Do you think the Frenchie is her lover?”
“No, he is just an artist, come to paint her picture. I think she is in love with her husband.”
“He’s sure in love with her, anyway. You should see all the jewels and clothes he buys her. Bess—she makes up to madame to see what she can get out of her—she’s seen her closets, jammed full of lovely outfits. He never bought his first wife half so much. He didn’t hire a city artist to paint her. She was done by Mr. Robinson, from hereabouts. I got a peek at the Frenchie. He’s very handsome. I think she’ll be carrying on with him, just flirting I mean.”
“Perhaps she will, for amusement.” Such an item will always interest women, but I turned determinedly back to Rosalie. “Mr. Rupert did you say was the name of Rosalie’s beau?” She affirmed it. “Who is he? What does he do?”
“He’s a newcomer to these parts. He came about a year ago. He sells real estate. He seems like a nice fellow. You’ll meet him in Widecombe on Saturday. That is, if you mean to come with me? Rosalie used to take Bobby into town for an outing.”
“I’d love to go with you.” I switched then to another matter. “Mrs. Palin gave me a beautiful shawl last night. Did she ever give you presents, or Rosalie?”
“If she’s giving you gifts, Jane, she wants something. She never gave me the time of day, but she gave Rosalie a few things. Bess is the one that has her drawers full of madame’s stuff, got it all for doing little errands for her and whatnot. Maybe for keeping her mouth closed, too.”
“About
what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, really. Madame sometimes goes off on trips, and a few times she took Bess with her, when Martin wasn’t feeling too well.”
“Did Mr. Palin go too?” I asked.
“No, not when Bess did. I wonder if madame just took Bess so she wouldn’t be here to roll her eyes at the master. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“You said Mr. Palin is very fond of his wife,” I reminded her.
“So he is, but Bess is that forward she’d march right into his chamber if she thought she could get away with it. I suppose he’s only human, like any other man.”
“Why do you think madame gave things to Rosalie? Did she ever take Rosalie on any of these trips?”
“No, she couldn’t leave Bobby. I don’t know why she gave Rosalie the blue gown and gloves, but I know Rosalie never wore them. She was kind of a quiet girl, secretive.”
This did not sound like my sister. Rosalie was outgoing, almost on the edge of being a chatterbox. I longed to ask more, but how could I profess any knowledge of an alleged stranger?
Molly spoke on, and I listened sharply. “She used to come out here alone sometimes. She didn’t ask me to come with her; she knew I didn’t like the moors. I began to think after she came a few times that she was meeting her fellow, so I never hinted to tag along. How would she have known the stone circles are so old, if Mr. Rupert didn’t tell her? She said once that she had found a little old abandoned hut on the moors. I think she met Mr. Rupert there, maybe.”
“Where was this hut? Did she say?”
“Over there is where she used to go,” Mollie said, pointing off to the left. An outcropping of rock marked the general direction for me. There were no man-made landmarks in sight.
“Very far?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “You can’t tell from here, can you? It can’t be too far. She wasn’t gone more than an hour or ninety minutes.”
There was a clatter behind us. Turning, we saw Mrs. Palin advancing, mounted on a bay mare, a deep-chested, beautifully groomed animal. Madame wore green, her preferred color, to match her eyes. On her head a dashing top hat, like a man’s, was tilted jauntily over one eye, secured under her chin with a veil. Her riding dress was in the new masculine style down to the waist. The jacket had a pointed man’s collar, and was set off by a white shirt and dark cravat, but beneath her waist a skirt billowed in the breeze.
“Don’t go too far, girls. You might get lost,” she called, as she cantered past. The wind was brisk, the riding rough. It seemed an odd place to choose for a ride, with the park and meadows and farmland in the other direction so much more attractive.
“Does she often ride on the moors?” I asked Mollie.
“A couple of times a week. She rides like a lancer, her husband says, hard and fast. He used to nag at her not to ride there, but she says she knows the moors like the back of her hand. Couldn’t get lost if she tried. She can’t know them that well. She’s only been here a few years. You have to grow up in this area to really know them.”
“Where is she from?” I asked, looking after her retreating form, sitting straight and easily on her mount, a natural rider. She went in the direction of the outcropping that Molly mentioned as leading to the little hut.
“Her family is from Bath, but she was in Africa before she came here. Quite a few years she was traveling.”
“Africa?” I asked, staring at this surprising answer.
“Yes, with her father. He was Mrs. Palin’s—April Palin’s—cousin, which is how she came to visit them. When her father died, she came home to England and wrote to Mrs. Palin. It was so lonely here Mrs. Palin invited her for a visit. They got along fine.”
“What were they doing in Africa?” I asked, much struck with this unlikely spot. I could not picture the fashionable madame in the wilds of that heathen place.
“Her father was a scientist, a kind of explorer I guess you’d call him. She brought a stuffed lion’s head home with her, and other wild things. Mr. Palin had them put up in the attic. You’ll have to come up with me and see them some time, Jane. There’s one animal with tusks out to here,” she said, her eyes wide, her hands out a foot in front of her face.
“How unusual! Did she stay long when she came on that visit?”
“Why, she never left at all. She’s been here ever since. Mrs. Palin wasn’t feeling very stout, and liked the company. Then when the Mrs. died, she just stayed on. Oh, not at the house! She hired a cottage in Widecombe, her and Martin, but before you could say Jack Robinson, she’d landed the master. He was that lonesome, you know, that he used to go and see her to have someone to talk to about his wife. Then when she decided to go off to the Continent, he upped and asked her to marry him. I bet it didn’t take her long to say yes. She had set her cap for him the night Mrs. Palin died, if I know anything.”
“You really dislike her, Molly. Has she ever done you any harm?”
“No, I’ve never got in her way, but she tried to get Mrs. Steyne turned off. Complained to the master about her, but he said she’d been here for thirty years, and he wouldn’t let her go.”
“What was the complaint against Mrs. Steyne?” I asked, finding it difficult to imagine one, as the woman was capable and pleasant.
“There was no real one, and that’s why the master wouldn’t get rid of her. It’s the only thing he’s ever denied his wife, I think. Mrs. Palin just wanted to put Martin in charge of us all. Martin has been with her from day one, was with her in Africa, and will be here till she dies.”
“I find Martin a cold woman.”
“She’s a regular iceberg. Why would anyone want to have such a creature around her for?”
“You mentioned on the train that Mr. Palin dislikes Martin, I think?”
“I fancy he’s just jealous of her taking up so much of madame’s time and company. Newlyweds ought to be more alone, like. Seemed to me madame spent more evenings with Martin than with her new husband. Oh well, she spent the nights with him. They’re not on as good terms as they used to be. He doesn’t go off visiting with her as he used to do. Often as not he goes to Tor Bay, and she goes off to see old friends in Bath or somewhere else. When he’s here and she’s away, he’s as fidgety as a cat on a hot roof.”
“She mentioned finding it lonesome here.”
“That’s why he lets her go, I suppose. He was always kind to April too. I shouldn’t call her that, but Cook does, and it keeps straight we’re not talking about the present Mrs. Palin, when we’re gossiping in the kitchen,” she said bluntly.
“April was very pretty. I see some traces of her in Bobby, around the eyes. She was young to have heart trouble, was she not?”
“Was that what took her? I thought it was poison. I’m sure there was talk of poison. Cook was furious, but it wasn’t her food, or the rest of them would have died too. Maybe that’s why they decided it was the heart. There has to be some reason for a young healthy woman to die.”
“But she was frail, had been sickly for some time, I thought?”
“She took bad spells for a year or so. She wasn’t really what you’d call an invalid.”
We had been retracing our steps to the park, and were nearly home. “I’d better go and get Bobby,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“So Rosalie was right about him,” Molly said, smiling.
“What do you mean?” I asked, startled.
“She mentioned to me once, not long before she left, that she didn’t think he was mental at all, “but only deaf as a doornail, for he can be very sly about some things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just getting what he wants, knowing where things are, and how to get around her. She thought he couldn’t hear anything at all, though, so she never made any headway in trying to improve him. Wouldn’t it be grand for the master if he could get better? Not be able to hear, I mean, but able to be halfways natural in other ways.”
“I mean to make him totally natural in other ways, Mo
lly,” I assured her.
“You do remind me so much of Rosalie at times,” she said, smiling fondly.
I determined to erase from my vocabulary any gesture, any similarity I might bear to my sister. Family expressions and so on have a way of cropping out if the guard is lowered. Rosalie might have stuck out her chin and expressed her resolution in the very manner I had just done. We parted, Molly for the house, myself for the stable.
Chapter Eight
With Mr. Palin away the next day, his wife came to the nursery to see how I was progressing with Bobby. I noticed he did not bounce forward to greet her, as he did his father. He turned his back on her and began looking at his toys, assembled on a shelf behind him. Truth to tell, I was so astonished at her appearance that my attention was by no means fully on my charge. She came to see us in the middle of the morning, but she was outfitted as though for a fancy dress ball. A black lace gown fell from her beautiful white shoulders, nipped in to an incredibly small waist, then billowed like a swollen, angry cloud about her feet. Her Titian curls shone like a crown on her proud head. At her ears and throat she wore sparkling green stones that must surely have been emeralds.
“Oh, madame!” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Don’t think I have run mad, Jane.” She laughed, her low voice gurgling. “I am dressed to have my portrait taken. Monsieur Arouet selected black for me. I cannot imagine why. I would have preferred green. I hope my husband won’t disapprove. Do you like it?”
“You look beautiful!” I exclaimed, without stretching the truth a millimeter.
“How sweet you are. I think I look a perfect crow.”