by Tamar Myers
‘You seem to have a mother’s innate sense of certainty,’ I said. ‘I am, after all, a mother twice over. Even though my older child is adopted, my heart would know if she were dead. Of that I am sure.’
Lady Aubrey grabbed my elbow, an intimacy which proved that surely she must have had at least one American ancestor somewhere in the upper branches of her family tree. From what I’d learned from Agnes, no pure-blooded Englishwoman would as much as set eyes on another person, much less a hand.
‘Magdalena, that is it exactly! Only another mother could possibly understand.’
‘I resent the heck out of that statement,’ said Gabe. Actually, he said a stronger word, one that references Satan’s permanent abode, and can be heard by reading the name of Helen of Troy aloud.
‘Gabriel,’ I said sharply, ‘must you?’
‘Must I what?’ my clueless husband retorted.
‘You swore in front of our child,’ I said.
‘Oh, stuff it,’ Aubrey said. ‘What a trifling thing to worry about at a time like this.’ Then, still firmly grasping my elbow, she practically pushed me down the narrow path ahead of her as if I were a perambulator and she a nanny racing to escape a swarm of bees.
‘S-s-stuff it?’ I stuttered. ‘Why I never, in all my born days! You, dear, are a shady lady, if indeed you even are one. According to Agnes, we’re having more bodily contact now than most Brits have their entire married lives. Surely you’re an imposter. I have half a mind to call the Department of Homeland Security.’
‘And you, Magdalena, are a silly woman,’ Aubrey hissed, sounding rather like a tea kettle, which should not have been surprising if she really was a Brit. Hissing American women sound more like snakes in my opinion, and I do have a right to an opinion, you know.
Nonetheless, I’d just been insulted by someone whose husband’s ancestors had quite possibly been ennobled for slaughtering peasants. My ancestors, on the other hand, were most assuredly persecuted peasants. Frankly, she may as well have slapped my face. I yanked my Yankee arm free from the countess’s claws and ran to the highway as fast as a knock-kneed woman in a midi-skirt and clodhopper shoes could go.
Alas, I wasn’t fast enough to escape the countess’s clutches. ‘H-have a heart,’ she panted. ‘I am in dire need of your assistance.’
‘For what?’ I wailed. Having run away from trouble on numerous occasions, I wasn’t even breathing hard.
‘The loo!’ she wailed. ‘The looooo.’
Who knew that English nobs could wail, much less sound like a coyote when the moon is full? Clearly the woman wasn’t bluffing, and when a gal’s gotta go – well, a gal’s gotta go.
‘Full steam ahead,’ I hollered, and made like it was the Devil Himself who was right behind.
Needless to say, we left poor Gabe, Little Jacob and Alison in our dry summer dust. When we got to the car we tumbled in and off we drove, lickety-split, far exceeding the speed limit. I was so focused on helping Aubrey that I didn’t stop to consider that breaking traffic rules is also a sin, and stranding my family without a ride home is downright inconsiderate.
TWENTY
ORANGE MARMALADE
4 oranges
1 lemon
Cold water
Sugar
Wash fruit; cut in half; remove seeds and stem end. Slice rind very thin or grind fine. For every cup of fruit add 1½ cups water. Let stand overnight. Pour in preserving kettle; let cook slowly from one to two hours or until tender. Again let stand overnight. For each cup of fruit add one cup of sugar and cook for twenty minutes or until it jells. Pour into hot, sterilized glasses; cover with paraffin.
TWENTY-ONE
Unfortunately, there was no way to drive all the way back to the inn in time to attend to poor Aubrey’s needs. She later revealed that she’d ventured to nibble on some sort of refreshment offered to her at the Convent of Perpetual Agony (her words, not mine). She wasn’t able to identify the treat, except to say that it was disgusting, vile, nauseating, etc. I wasn’t able to help on that account, as her description applied to everything that I’d ever sampled there as well.
My pioneer ancestors could not have gotten as far inland as Hernia had not every single one of them been willing upon more than one occasion to sneak off behind a bush to attend to their bodily functions. Lady Aubrey made it abundantly clear, via more wailing, that the grand mistress of Gloomsburythorpe was above taking a squat in the woods, even if her high-born hinnie was hidden. At that point, we either made it back to the PennDutch in time or I surrendered my cream-coloured Cadillac to the hang-ups of the English upper class.
Actually, there was a third option, albeit an unpleasant one; that option was to stop in at Rudy Swinefister’s farmhouse and beg to use his facilities. However, since at that very moment my co-religionists were trampling his wheat crop, my request might possibly be met with a modicum of hostility. I dare say, it would be rather like a lioness asking a herd of zebras if they might babysit her cubs while she strolled down to the river for a drink of water. Well, I have never been any good at drawing analogies, so perhaps that one is too extreme. Or not. After all, I certainly didn’t expect Rudy to open his door while holding a double-barrel shotgun. What’s more, one of the barrels was pointed directly at me, which meant the other one most probably was as well.
‘Go away,’ Rudy said softly. Curiously, he didn’t sound angry.
‘Rudy, we have an emergency,’ I said.
‘Funny,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t figure you for a Judas as well.’
‘This woman needs to use your bathroom,’ I said.
‘I don’t need the bath part,’ Aubrey said, ‘just the toilet.’
Rudy stepped aside and pointed to a hallway. ‘Second door on the left,’ he said. ‘You’ll have a good view of Lover’s Leap from the john.’
‘Thank you,’ Aubrey said gratefully, her words trailing behind her like a stream of toilet paper as she ran.
‘That was very nice of you,’ I said. ‘Rudy Swinefister, you are a good man.’
He grunted. ‘Magdalena, follow me.’
Rudy led me through a traditional farmhouse living room, still decorated with antique Victorian furniture that had belonged to his mother, now deceased: Zelda Swinefister. The wide entry hall was flanked by a parlour on one side and a formal dining room on the other. In the dining room, the heavy oaken table had been shoved to one side and most of the matching chairs piled on top. This was to make room for a large elaborate telescope at the south window, the one facing Lover’s Leap. Beside the telescope was a wooden TV tray bearing the remains of a half-eaten Sunday dinner.
Sometimes my brain can be as dense as my homemade bread; on those occasions I foolishly jump to conclusions. Then again, since jumping to conclusions is yet another of my regular exercises, I shouldn’t beat myself up whenever I do. Come to think of it, beating oneself up might even be considered to be a form of exercise – just not one that is suitable for a pacifist.
‘Please tell me,’ I said, ‘that you’re not one of those UFO nut jobs.’
Rudy frowned. ‘If a witty woman is half right, does that make her a half-wit?’ he asked.
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘I accept your apology, Magdalena, if only because your theology keeps the essential you boxed in. You’re like a hamster who thinks that his cage is the entire universe – if hamsters were capable of thinking about the universe and their place in it.’
Of course my feathers were ruffled, given that I hadn’t actually apologized, but his analogy was so ludicrous that showing him up would be more satisfying than getting angry.
‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ I said smugly, ‘because if a hamster could think about the universe and that it was limited to their cage, how would they explain the giant hand that reaches in to care for them from time to time?’
‘Perhaps in this analogy they think of those hands as God.’
I was stunned. ‘What a shocking thing for you to say, Rudy. What is yo
ur point, besides trying to insult my faith?’
His frown long gone, Rudy sighed. ‘I was not trying to be sacrilegious; I was trying to make a point. If you’ll recall, Magdalena, I started out believing, as you do now. I know that you believe that aliens from another planet cannot possibly exist because they are not mentioned in the Bible, in God’s plan of salvation. And I’d be willing to wager a bushel of my finest wheat that you are fully aware that I am open to encounters with extra-terrestrial visitors. Am I right?’
‘Yes, but you are also wrong,’ I said. ‘I mean that your beliefs are wrong.’
‘Spoken like a true conservative,’ Rudy said.
That hiked my hackles. ‘Don’t put the blame on me, dear. It was God Almighty who chose not to create your little green men.’
‘There you go again with another absurd conclusion,’ Rudy said. He sounded a little peeved himself.
Simultaneously, we were made aware of Lady Aubrey’s presence at the dining-room door. Rudy and I froze like naughty children with our hands caught in the cookie jar.
‘We didn’t do anything,’ I said, ‘except verbally spar with each other. Isn’t that the case, Rudy?’
‘Come on, Magdalena, be totally honest; is that all that happened?’
‘Of course! What else could have happened? Even if you’re implying what I think you are, that takes at least three minutes now that I’m older, and she wasn’t gone but two.’
‘Oh, do tell everything,’ said Lady Aubrey. ‘You Americans are just as wicked as your films portray you.’
I gasped. ‘W-w-w-wicked? Little Mennonite moi?’
Despite his rather obvious faults, Rudy had an agreeable laugh. ‘I was about to show Magdalena my telescope. I have it focused on Lover's Leap. Contrary to what our self-described little Mennonite believes, I have no time for star-gazing.’
‘I believe that Mars is not a star,’ I snapped.
‘Quite right,’ Lady Aubrey murmured as she hurried toward us. ‘Might I have a look?’
Rudy helped the countess adjust some knobs until she had the cliff edge ‘practically in my lap.’ In fact, he had to dial back the view a bit because even the sight of a chipmunk scurrying along in the background made her recoil and left her pale and shaking with fright.
‘It was a bear,’ she said when she could speak. ‘I’ve never seen one – we don’t have them back home – but yes, I’m sure that this was a bear.’
Rudy did a quick check on the scope. Black bears have been known to find their way atop Stucky Ridge to raid the trash bins, but normally they wait until we noisy humans have left. This, I’ll have you know (in all modesty, of course) is largely due to me educating my fellow Hernians not to feed our neighbouring members of the family Ursidae.
‘Chipmunks,’ he explained to our panting visitor, ‘are no larger than a hamster. Think of them as tiny squirrels with stripes – only cuter.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Lady Aubrey said. ‘Silly me.’
Oh, what stoicism those Brits possess! Keep calm and carry on, indeed. What a plucky, lucky people to live in those Sceptred Isles where a stiff upper lip is the result of a brave attitude and not an injection of Botox.
I sighed wistfully. ‘If I could have been born in any other country except America, it would have been somewhere in the United Kingdom. You know, Agnes feels the same way.’
‘That’s no surprise,’ Rudy said, rudely interrupting my moment of sweet reverence. ‘Many Americans are Anglophiles and think of England as the motherland, even though their ancestors came from other countries. It is because we were once a British colony and English is our mother tongue. Also, the language one thinks in contributes to one’s world view.’
‘To be fair,’ Lady Aubrey said, ‘I’m not sure that the love that you Americans have for us is reciprocated – at least not to the same degree.’
‘What?’ I refused to believe my ears. Her remark was simply unacceptable, and as for Rudy’s reaction, he looked like a scarecrow minus the straw and supporting framework.
‘But more’s the pity,’ Lady Aubrey said as if absolutely clueless. ‘Let them eat cake, tally ho, and God Save the Queen!’
‘Excuse me?’ said Rudy. ‘Are you having a nervous breakdown? Insults are one thing but incoherence is quite another.’
‘Well said for a farmer, dear,’ I said most sincerely. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised at Rudy’s eloquence; I’d long known that he subscribes to O Magazine.
Lady Aubrey plopped unceremoniously atop the lone chair next to the telescope. ‘Unfortunately I am still in possession of all of my faculties, which is precisely my problem. At least if I were bonkers I might enjoy seeing your reactions to my next bit of news.’
‘Holy guacamole,’ Rudy said, clasping his hands in a prayer-like stance. ‘I knew it; you really are Kim Jong-un in drag. I’m sure that you had Magdalena fooled, but I knew it from the moment that I met you. It’s that awful wig. It reads more like a dirty floor mop crossed with a steel wool pad than it does human hair. Really, girlfriend, the least that you could do is wash that retirement home for rats on top of your head. Maybe use more roach spray and less hairspray next time.’
I glanced around for a hole large enough to crawl into and, not finding one available, resorted to telling a harmless white lie. ‘Why, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,’ I said. ‘I never met this man before in my life!’
My guest rose from the chair in a stately manner, squared her noble shoulders, narrowed her eyes and set her chin just so. Even a colonial rube like myself could read that body language. Lady Aubrey, the Countess of Grimsley-Snodgrass, was clearly not amused by our jesting.
She cleared her throat but in a genteel way, of course. ‘What I have been trying to tell you two is that I have only one son.’
‘My dear,’ I cried, ‘you mustn’t say that!’ A true blue-blood, Lady Aubrey could speak without moving her lips. But she’d spoken so calmly about her son’s death that he might as well have been an overwatered houseplant.
‘No, no, you don’t understand,’ she protested.
‘But I do,’ I said, placed one spindly Yoder arm around her left shoulder and gave her the gentlest of squeezes.
‘Ouch,’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s the princess and the pea syndrome,’ I said with a wink. ‘It’s you who has royal blood; that’s why you’re so sensitive to touch.’
Before Aubrey had a chance to react to my latest accusation, the usually misanthropic Rudy threw both of his well-tanned and heavily-muscled arms around the countess and pulled her in tight against his bulging pectoral muscles.
‘Thanks for the hug, dear,’ Lady Aubrey said as she patted his biceps, ‘but I’m quite all right. Rally, I am.’ She patted his bulges again.
‘How can you say that, Aubrey,’ I said, ‘when your daughter just murdered your son?’
‘Murdered? Are you daft? Or didn’t you listen to a word I just said? I have just the one son. Not twins, not two sons, just one. That would be the Viscount Rupert.’
Now it was my turn to throw back my broad peasant shoulders, furrow my easily puckered brow and narrow my faded blue eyes into slits. ‘Are you saying that you’ve been lying to me?’ She began to nod her head so I picked up steam. ‘This has all been a deception? A con game of some sort?’
‘Oh, no, Magdalena,’ Aubrey said in a sudden burst of emotion. ‘It is nothing nefarious, if that’s what you mean. If the two of you swear to keep my secret I will tell you everything. And I mean everything. You have to swear to secrecy on a Bible – on a King James version. That should suit you, I would think.’ Then, using up several years’ worth of British emotion, she stepped forth and caught up my hands in hers, flesh actually touching flesh. And let me tell you, those aristocratic little hands, as bare as a new-born babe’s, were as smooth as mother-of-pearl and as light as Charleston biscuits.
Her aristocratic little hands were so light, I’m telling you, that when I let go of them they floated back to her s
ides. It wasn’t fair. Why, Lord, did you create some folks with perfect features, peaches-and-cream complexions, curvaceous figures, shapely limbs, give them wealth, titles of nobility and good health? OK, so there was the matter of her rather unattractive husband, but all in all it just wasn’t fair.
‘Aubrey,’ I said, ‘forsooth, I would swear on just that version of the Holy Book, if swearing is something that I did. However, we Mennonites are forbidden to swear. Come to think of it, one would think that James chapter five, verse twelve would apply to all Christians. It commands us to let our yes be “yes,” and our no be “no.”’
‘How very quaint,’ the countess said. ‘Although surely that doesn’t apply to everyone. What I mean to say is that I have watched American telly. The Good Wife, for instance, is one of my favourite programs. Am I mistaken, or is your Mennonite sect rather like the Quackers? Because that would explain this strange custom of yours.’
‘No, dear,’ I said softly, to minimize her embarrassment, ‘it’s pronounced Quakers. They named themselves that because they quake in awe and fear before God – as any reasonable person ought to.’
‘Bullocks. I’ve met the Queen on numerous occasions and we’ve always gotten along quite splendidly. She’s never once caused me to quake, and seeing as how she is the Head of the Anglican Church, she is pretty close to being God, if you ask me. Therefore I am quite sure that the name of the sect that I have in mind is Quackers. Now, how dreadfully boring this conversation has gotten, so do let’s move on.’
Quackers is exactly how she continued to pronounce Quakers, as if my fellow pacifists were a flock of emoting ducks. This was getting to be a bit much; the rose-coloured film was all but washed from my glasses, and in the light of high noon, the mistress of one of England’s finest families was forever tarnished in my estimation. I don’t know what I would have done had Rudy not at last stepped up to the plate.
‘Ahem. Your Highness, I hate to break it to you, but Magdalena is right. As for the swearing, how about I do that twice – once on her behalf, before Magdalena calls the county sheriff down from Bedford. I already know, by looking through the scope, that she has our local police involved. And by the way, I should mention that appearances can be deceiving; Magdalena might look like a simple Mennonite farmwoman but she’s as sharp as a steel pitchfork and as well-connected as a barn built from Legos. She might not cast much of a shadow; nonetheless, you don’t want to get on her bad side.’