by Joan Smith
“Too bad,” she said. “The funny thing is, madame’s parrot died just like that. Madame let it out in the garden one day. Rosalie and I were trying to catch it for her, but after a while it flew right onto madame’s shoulder. She put it into the cage, and it went into a conniption and died.”
“Parrot fever,” Cook said. “That’s what madame said killed that parrot of hers. She said it’s contagious, too. She knew some man that caught it from his bird, and just cocked up his toes and died. I remember she had us laundering everything in her room so she’d not catch the bird’s fever herself. The cat must have caught it.”
“You and Bobby had better give yourselves a good scrub,” Mrs. Steyne suggested, though of course neither she nor I put any credence in Cook’s explanation of Huck’s death.
“Yes, but first I must find him.”
“He went out the side door, must have,” Mrs. Steyne suggested.
The butler told me Master Robert had not come downstairs at all. I darted back up, using the main staircase in my haste. I noticed the door leading to the parapet hung open, and felt a tingle of alarm after Mr. Palin’s injunctions against the spot. A chair drawn up by the door told the story. Bobby knew where the key was kept, had dragged a chair from the guestroom, clambered up and got hold of the key to let himself out. This struck me as very odd behavior, when one considered he had been on his way to see a kitten buried.
I ran to the door with my heart hammering in my throat. I did not fear the baluster was unsafe, but that Bobby might climb up on it and fall off seemed not only possible at that moment, but inevitable. I was on edge from the strange death of the kitten. The child was not on the railing. He stood behind it, perfectly safe, holding the dead kitten up over his head. As I watched, horrified, he let the carcass fall to the ground below. I was filled with revulsion.
“Bobby! Why did you do that?” I asked, staring at him, and wondering once again if the child could be normal. Surely this was not the act of a perfectly sane boy, to throw that pitiful little corpse to the ground two stories below.
“Huck all gone,” he told me, with sad, wise eyes. Then he wiped his hands, placed one of them in mine, and turned back to the door. In my mood, I felt a shiver when he touched me, as though he were some evil little monster.
I scolded him severely for what he had done, but throughout he insisted with a dignified calm that Huck was gone. He looked at me with a question in his eyes, as though I did not comprehend this fact. He seemed to have taken the notion that throwing the mortal remains over the parapet was the established procedure, and that was that.
I took him to his room to oversee his washing, then gave Mrs. Steyne the key to the parapet door, telling her only that Bobby had got it and unlocked the door. I could not bring myself to tell her the whole bizarre truth. It was too awful. I got a footman to go and bury the kitten’s corpse, then went back to the nursery. Bobby sat at his desk drawing pictures of Huck. He had truly loved the little kitten. His lips were turned down, his shoulders sagging.
“Why did Huck die?” he asked, quietly, in such a normal way that I was completely baffled by the child, at times so strange, at times so normal.
His question was difficult to answer. Why had Huck died? Certainly not from a nip by a dog, and not from parrot fever either.
“Did Bingie kill him?” was the next disturbing question.
“No!” I answered sharply. He accepted it, but the doubt was on his face, for I had not really answered his main question.
Dinner that evening was not a success. Neither of us felt like eating. We toyed with our food. I quite simply dreaded Mr. Palin’s visit that evening. He was sensitive enough to realize there was something wrong in the nursery.
“Is Bobby not feeling well?” he asked me. He placed his hand on the child’s forehead, testing for a fever.
“His kitten died,” I told him.
“Ah, that’s too bad. What happened to it?”
I explained about the dog bite, and the convulsion. “How very peculiar!” he said, frowning. “I wonder if it is possible the kitten got into something at the stable. Some medicine, something to poison him. Did he seem perfectly normal before you touched him, Miss Bingham?”
“Yes, he did. The dog didn’t hurt him much, only a nip. He seemed to be gasping at the end, gasping and shuddering, as though he couldn’t breathe.”
“It happened very quickly, you say?”
“Yes, the kitten was fine one minute, dead the next.”
“An extraordinary coincidence,” he said, staring out the window, with a deeply troubled expression on his face.
I was screwing up my courage to confess Bobby had got out to the parapet, but before I could speak, he asked, “You didn’t happen to be using any poison this afternoon? No, of course not. That would be impossible,” he decided, answering his own question.
I remembered then the strange reddish-brown substance I had come across at the hut on the moors. I had scooped it up with my index finger, the same finger with which I had probed Huck’s wound. Surely that was not what had killed him? No, the kitten had not licked my finger at all. “No, I didn’t,” I answered. It was not my intention to tell anyone I had been at the hut, nor what I had found.
I rushed on to tell him Bobby had been on the parapet, but again I withheld any mention of what he had done there. I felt a motherly urge to protect the child from a quizzing or a scold, he looked so unhappy. And really he had not done any harm; the kitten was already dead. I expected a thundering scold from the father.
“I did not realize Mrs. Steyne kept the key there,” he answered mildly. “Imagine the child knowing it was there, and having the wits to go after it.” He seemed pleased rather than outraged. Recalling himself, he added, “Make sure the key is not left there where he can get hold of it in future. I wonder how he came to know its whereabouts.”
“He must have seen someone go out. The parapet is not in bad disrepair,” I mentioned.
“Its very height is dangerous to him,” he answered, but this was not his original reason for forbidding the spot. “Have you found him to be generally aware of what is going on around him on other occasions?” was the next question.
“I am convinced he is as sharp as may be,” I answered quickly. “He performed poorly for me the other evening, but really he is very intelligent, Mr. Palin.”
The dark eyes turned on me were not convinced, but they were interested, painfully hopeful. “Could you give me a demonstration of it now?” he asked.
“He is upset today about Huck. Perhaps ... Bobby,” I called. He was still at his desk in the corner, his favorite spot for drawing. He turned, looking for my voice in the far corner. I explained my theory that he was totally deaf in one ear, which accounted for his lack of any sense of direction in his hearing. Mr. Palin was interested in this. Before many minutes were up, he had drawn out his pocket watch to duplicate my experiments, holding it first at one ear, then the other.
As he repeated the performance again and again, his doubt turned to hope, then to conviction, and in the end to sublime joy. It was heartwarming to see the light in his eyes, the incredible excitement, the barely contained euphoria as I outlined my notion that the child’s lack of speech, or poor speech, was the result of this very imperfect hearing.
“But this is incredible, fantastic! How does it come no one ever caught on to it before?” he asked. “I should have noticed it myself.”
“He is young yet. It cannot have been so long you were worried about his lack of speech. Many children speak incoherently past two years. I have noticed a great improvement since concentrating on speaking loud and clear to him, and insisting that he take more care forming his words.”
“Do you really think he might be...” He could not bring himself to utter the magic word.
“I think he is perfectly normal, barring his deafness, and the natural frustration of someone who cannot hear and communicate as he wants to.”
“I have dared to hope occasio
nally... but always there was some sudden relapse into that unnaturalness he displays at times.” I could not avoid a memory of that inert kitten on the ground below the parapet, but perhaps there was some explanation for what Bobby had done. Belief on his father’s part was too important to allow any doubts to creep in now, when I had him on the edge of believing.
“It is strange, you know,” he went on, “just before she left us, Miss Thompson once expressed the possibility that Bobby was deaf. I thought little of it at the time, then after she was gone, he went into such a bout of tantrums and tears there was no doing anything with him. He was worse than ever, not better.”
Bobby became bored with being left out of his father’s attention, and began badgering him. “Read me a story,” he said. His tone was imperious, but it was so gratifying to hear him express himself without a flaw, barring the lack of “please,” that I did not scold him. Mr. Palin blinked in surprise.
“He certainly is speaking better. ‘Story Bobo’ used to be his manner of making this request.”
Mr. Palin stayed late in the nursery that evening. He had to try his hand at conversing, and noticed a good improvement. I brought out the books to allow my charge to show off his skill at naming all the objects, and even offering a few comments on them. The father was so enthusiastic, and so hot in singing my praises, that I felt obliged to point out I had done nothing more than notice the child was deaf. The rest of it followed naturally from that.
“You cared enough to notice. You have obviously done a great deal of work as well, Miss Bingham.”
“Bingie is a good girl,” Bobby piped up, when he realized I was being congratulated.
“Indeed she is a marvelous girl.” His father smiled. “I cannot express my gratitude to you: It is as though I have had my son given back to me. I had a strange feeling, in London, that you would be good for Bobby. I had no notion how good you would be. He was deeply perturbed, didn’t know what he was doing there for a spell. He was not responsible for his actions. You have stabilized him. I hope you will stay with us forever, Miss Bingie. Or at least till my son has outgrown the need for you. That will not be for a long, long time. In fact, I will take this opportunity to tell you that for as long as you live, and want to stay here, you will always have a home at Palin Park. There is no tangible way I can repay you for this—gift.”
“I tried to tell you the other night,” I answered, blushing at this barrage of praise.
“Yes, and I turned my back on the knowledge, for I was sure you were mistaken, and it was unbearable to have it all dredged up again, the hope... He was nervous, unhappy, that evening. I wonder what was the matter.”
I felt sure it was his wife that was the matter. “I expect I communicated my nervousness to him, made it too formal an occasion.”
“That is probably the explanation. He is always nervous with Regina, Mrs. Palin. She will be amazed when she returns. I mean to spend a considerable time here with Bobby and you during her absence. I don’t want to miss a minute of this—miracle,” he said, choosing the last word with deliberation.
He stayed with us an hour, and was still loath to leave, but darkness had fallen, and a servant finally came to the nursery to call him to his dinner.
“I am in Cook’s black books. I am half an hour late. What a night to have to eat alone! I should be hosting a large party. Will you come to my study in about an hour, Miss Bingie—Bingham,” he corrected, with a laugh. “We shall discuss how we should proceed to get the best and fastest results from your discovery.”
“I’ll be there.”
I had Bobby safely tucked in for the night before the hour was up. Mr. Palin was even more enthusiastic with my performance than I had been myself. I felt then that perhaps it was a sort of miracle. I felt not a single omen that a miracle could have such malicious, devastating consequences.
Chapter Fourteen
I brushed my hair carefully before going to Mr. Palin’s study, but made no more strenuous toilette than that. As I passed along through the main wing of the house to the grand staircase, I remembered my resolve to get into madame’s room during her absence. As the hallway was empty, I glided silently along and tried her knob. The door was locked, also Miss Martin’s. It was odd the mistress should lock her door, but then she was an odd mistress. I descended the wide stairway, looking below to the gaslight shining on paneling and carpets and crystal. How elegant it looked, and how strangely lifeless. Mr. Palin’s study door stood ajar. He glanced up from some papers and smiled warmly at me.
“Come in, Miss Bingham,” he said, arising to show me a chair. I could not but compare his welcome with that I had received on the night of my arrival, when I had been just another servant. A greater surprise yet was in store for me. A bottle of wine and two glasses were awaiting us on a side table.
“This occasion calls for a celebration. It should be champagne,” he said, lifting the bottle and pouring two glasses. I accepted one, then sat in the chair closest the desk.
“I haven’t been able to think of a thing but this discovery, ever since you made me aware of it,” he began. “I first took the idea I ought to call in some experts, but a stranger always upsets Bobby a little. As you two have reached such a good understanding, I think it best after all for you to continue on alone. Do you think I am right?”
I considered this carefully, reluctant to have a stranger intruding, yet wanting to do what was right for the child. “I don’t see what more can be done than what you are doing,” he spoke on, when I remained silent for longer than normal before answering a question. “We’ll go on as you have in the past, at least for now. If we decide professional help is wanted, it can be arranged later, after the new year. Next time we go up to London, you will come with us and I’ll arrange a consultation with the people who do this sort of work. They have experts on every matter in London. I spoke to one last time about his mental condition; it seems now I saw the wrong gentleman. The main thing for us to do now is to keep the child calm and happy, so that no emotional crisis arises to hamper his progress. He is emotional, prone to sudden inexplicable... but I hope that is all over now. With the security your calming presence has brought, he is cured. He did not act up badly at all when Huck died, for instance. Having someone he loves and trusts made it easier for him to take. I really cannot tell you how good you are for the child.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about Bobby’s throwing Huck’s body over the parapet, but this was a celebration, and I did feel this man deserved one night of complete happiness. He was perfectly aware of Bobby’s occasional freakish behavior, so he needed no more examples from me. “I believe he has come to trust me,” I said.
“It is more than evident he cares very much for his Miss Bingie,” he answered, smiling fondly. “You are a godsend to the child, and me. You deserve some extraordinary reward. Come Christmas, you will have it. This will be the happiest Christmas this house has seen since... in many years. We shall get something special for Bobby too. Think about it, and advise me. Try thinking pony,” he added, with a self-conscious laugh. “From despair I have flown to foolishness, you see. In January I mean to run him for prime minister. But seriously, he does dote on horses. How he would love to have one. You must forgive me if I babble. I am too excited to remain silent, and too happy to be completely sensible.”
“It is good to see you so happy, Mr. Palin.”
“Have I been a morose old fellow? Very likely I have, but my friends and servants are too polite to tell me so. They’ll see a new man from now on. I wonder if it is too early to start formal teaching of Bobby, the rudiments of reading, you know, that sort of thing.”
“He is rather young. I’ll try, if you like.”
“I expect I am rushing it. To get him speaking normally is the main thing now. Better not to confuse him. I wonder if they can do anything to aid his hearing in London. Bobby must come with us when we go. What a sight he’ll look with an ear trumpet stuck into his ear, like an octogenarian!”
But he was not at all distressed at this prospect. Nothing could impair his humor that night.
After a quarter of an hour, I had finished my wine, and began shifting in my chair, preparatory to leaving. “Don’t go yet,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me alone in all my joy. This is your party too, Bingie. Have another glass of wine. We must become better acquainted. You are a permanent part of our family now. Tell me all about yourself. I remember you come from the north country, and your father was a churchman.”
I had not invented a much more complex past than that for myself, never imagining anyone would try to draw me out in detail. “We lived quietly, Mr. Palin. There is not much to tell. I helped my father with his parish business, did church and charity work, mostly at the orphanage.”
“Have you run across a problem like my son’s before?” he asked.
“No, but I noticed he had no sense of direction in his hearing—when a sound was heard from behind, I mean.”
“You are observant. I feel culpable in not having noticed it myself. But we are only discussing Bobby now. Let us revert to you. What makes you happy? What would you like?” he urged. I deduced he wished to learn this in order to repay me for helping his son.
“There is no material thing I want. I like to feel useful, that I am contributing something on my trip through life.”
“That would be your father’s influence. A very good one, it goes without saying, but surely a young lady who is not wealthy must crave something she cannot afford.” He looked almost unbelieving.
“If I think of anything, I shall let you know.”
He regarded me closely. “You probably won’t,” he answered, with a rueful smile. “There is one way I can repay you, at least. I refer to vulgar cash. Your salary has been increased, from this day. I know you take too little interest in money to inquire the sum,” he said, reminding me of my neglect to do this on the day he hired me, “but you shall see on next quarter day.”
I thanked him. We talked a little longer, but I succeeded in turning the conversation back to Bobby, not difficult to accomplish in his mood. When I finished my second glass, I took my leave. Mr. Palin sighed happily and took up his glass to drain it.