by Megan Daniel
Suddenly, in the middle of a jump, Mr. Kneighley just stared in the air, his muddy feet and scrawny legs lacking an angry dance. Derek Rowbridge had hoisted him up by the back of the collar.
“That is quite enough! You forget yourself, sir!” Mr. Kneighley was unceremoniously removed from the premises. The last Saskia heard from him was a babbling, “Mama will have something to say to this!”
Saskia didn’t know whether to sink with embarrassment or to go off into whoops of laughter. Mr. Kneighley often produced such a dichotomy of emotions in her. She rather thought she would opt for laughter. She felt sure Derek would join her in it; he seemed to share her sense of the ridiculous.
But when he returned from “escorting” Mr. Kneighley from the premises, he was not laughing. Saskia wondered how much of the silly scene he had overheard before his timely intervention, and she cast her mind back over it in an attempt to recall exactly what had been said. She couldn’t think what could have made him look so grim. Was that anger in his face? What could he possibly have to be angry about, she asked herself. Or was it contempt? That would be more in his style. But then, when he turned more directly toward her, did it not look just a bit like sadness, well disguised?
Whatever it was, by the time he reached her it had changed into a sardonic smirk.
“An elevating scene, Cousin,” he said coolly.
"Well, yes. Mr. Kneighley was certainly elevated.” She giggled in spite of herself. “Handsomely done, sir, I must say. I do thank you for coming to my rescue. I was all at sea.”
“I can’t imagine you at sea,” he said, then paused. “Not figuratively at least.” She looked up, puzzled, and their eyes held for a moment “Come. Mina was about to treat us to some ClementL”
“No treat I fear,” she said, accompanying him toward the house. “We must hope that Mina develops into the beauty she promises to be. I fear her musical talents will not carry her far.”
“Unkind! Perhaps she just needs more practice.”
“Oh, no. Ever since discovering that you liked young ladies who play the piano, we have been subjected to her agonized pounding day and night Mr. Clementi would not thank you, I think.”
“Well, Mina will have other charms.”
“Yes, thank goodness. And she does try so very hard. You will be ldnd when she plays for us, won’t you, Cousin Derek?”
He stopped and flashed angry eyes at her. “You always expect the worst from me, don’t you Saskia?”
“Why, no! Of course I don’t. I didn’t mean ...”
“Oh, never mind. I know,” he said impatiently. “Come. Mina is waiting. And you needn’t worry. I will be kind.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was soon dinnertime and Jannie, who liked Derek very well indeed, set to with a will, her rheumatism entirely forgotten, to produce a real Dutch country dinner in his honor. That meant rich, hearty fare and plenty of it
“Ah, Mrs. Jansen,” he sighed as she carried in the thick, steaming erwtensoep, heady with split peas and rookworst. "What a welcome change from hotel fare. Even the renowned kitchens of the York House grow tedious. But this, this is food?”
Jannie beamed; everyone else laughed. The children set themselves to teach Derek the proper pronunciation of the wonderful things he was eating, and he discovered that wrapping his tongue around the broad a’s and soft gutturals was much more difficult than putting it to the delicious things the names represented.
There was dark, grainy roggebrood, spread thickly with sweet butter, and served with raw herring and paling, those delicately smoked eels from the Zuider Zee. Thick slices of rare and juicy rosbief were set off with hot potato salad, well-spiced and tart with vinegar. And the cheesesl Creamy white Edamer, red-rimmed Goudse
kaas with cumin seeds, and soft smeerkaas spiced with garlic and herbs.
And just when Derek was patting his bulging stomach and complaining of the tight fit of his trousers, the desserts arrived. After playful protests, he allowed Jannie to spoon out a huge bowlful of creamy, coffee- scented hopjesvla, and he delighted in the frothy HaagsebJuf, the berry-flavored meringue that disappeared in his mouth like a cloud on a summer’s day.
The aura of good cheer set well on the whole family, but Saskia couldn’t help noticing that Derek avoided her eyes as much as possible and she was hurt by it. When he did chance to catch her gaze, a tiny scowl would flit across his face and he would turn quickly away, to tease Mama or to flirt outrageously with Trix.
The whole family retreated to the drawing room directly after the meal, the gentlemen following close in the wake of the ladies. No one dawdled on Wednesdays, for Wednesday evening was always “Mama’s Reading Circle.”
“Reading Circle?” said Derek when informed by Trix of the treat in store.
“Oh, yes,” replied Trix. “You see, Mama likes to try out her story ideas and characters and such before she is fully committed. So every Wednesday we get to read what she has written. She even promises to listen to our reactions and advice, though she doesn’t promise to follow it.”
"I look forward to it. You know, I have never before known a real-life authoress.”
“It’s too bad it isn't Saskia’s turn to read. She is always terribly dramatic and has us all on the edges of our chairs. I’m afraid you will have to put up with me.”
He grinned. “I think I can stand it.”
Saskia, who was pouring out the coffee, overheard only the end of this little exchange as they approached her. The smile they shared was not lost on her either. It looked more and more as though her cousin was to become her brother-in-law, and she wondered why she felt so little joy at the prospect. He was precisely the sort of man she would wish for Trix (having apparently forgotten that hut a short while ago she would not have wished him on anyone, even her worst enemy). He was now seen to be strong and kind and, yes, even gentle. If he won the contest, there would be no problems about money. And if she won it—hopeless wish!—she would be able to give Trix a large dowry. There seemed to be nothing standing in their way, provided one of them could come up with the answer. If neither did, then everyone lost out. Saskia caught herself sighing.
“Sit by me, Cousin Derek,” cried Mina as she scrambled onto a settee. “Please?”
“If you promise not to drop macaroon crumbs and {am tart all over my coat,” he answered with a smile and sat beside her. She gazed up at him rather worshipfully.
“Do you need another cushion, Opa?” said Trix.
“I do wish you would settle down, Willem," said Mama. “You are making me seasick with all your bobbing about.”
“No, Rembrandt!” said Neil sternly. “You may not chew on my shoe! At least not while it is on my foot. Lie down!”
“Well, then,” said Saskia as the bustle began to die away. “Is everyone settled?” Quiet descended on the room, but for the shuffling of the manuscript pages in Mama’s hands.
The festivities officially began with Mama, as Miss Cornelia Crawley, reciting the words she recited every Wednesday evening. “Now you must all understand that this is only a first draft. There is still much work to do. I am counting on your comments and suggestions.” She handed the pages to Trix. “As you will recall we left Magdalena a prisoner in Castle Almendoro, she having failed rather abysmally in her attempts to destroy it, poor thing. The Count is away, but she fears his return at any moment. Very well, Beatrix,” she said with great dignity. “You may begin.”
With a little cough and a deep breath, Trix began to read.
“The candle had burned very low now and sputtered and flickered in the draft from the huge fireplace, but still Magdalena’s pen flew across the page of the diary. She must write it all down, every word, every horrid deed, so the world would know of the Count’s infamy. And she must never let him know about this precious, this damning diary.
“The wind whistled in the chimney; a screech owl pierced the night sky with his cry, as he prepared to attack some small, warm animal. A shudder went through Magdal
ena at the sound, so like the vicious laugh of the Count, and she pulled her shawl closer about her.”
As Trix’s voice read on, sliding lightly over the words that told Magdalena’s story, Saskia found her eyes wandering around the group. Opa in his wing chair was already beginning to nod. Rembrandt nodded at his feet. Neil listened analytically, forming editorial comments in his mind, while the twins leaned forward, rapt expressions on their little matched faces, both of them caught up in the “and then?” aspects of the story.
When Saskia’s eyes lighted on Derek it was to surprise him gazing at her, with a glimmer of the same expression as was on the twins’ faces. He seemed embarrassed to be caught at it, and they both looked quickly away, making a visible effort to concentrate on Beatrix’s voice.
“As she scratched out the words, Magdalena’s eyes lighted on the reassuring sight of the long, slender letter opener she had found in the desk. Its polished silver blade glinted in the flickering candlelight and the large ruby on its handle glowed like blood. When the Count finally returned, as return he would, she would have the means with which to protect herself. How
stupid he had been to allow her the use of the library. It would be his undoing. One way or another Magdalena would see to it.”
The story unfolded; the diary told its tale; but for all the excitement of Magdalena’s travails, Derek was having trouble concentrating on the words. His mind kept wandering back to his cousin. And to the contest. Blast the silly thing! If it weren’t for this crazy whim of Aunt Hester’s he would throw caution to the wind and declare his love for his cousin. He would have nothing to lose and such a treasure to gain!
But there was the contest. And if he declared himself now his motives would be suspect. Simple logic, combined with the fact that she had never entirely trusted him, would lead her to assume that he was simply removing the opposition by enlisting it into his own camp. Not a bad idea, of course, if he didn’t care so very much. How much more effective they could be if they were working together toward a goal that would satisfy them both.
But it was no good. She was certain to jealously guard this one and only chance to provide for the large family for which she felt so responsible. He had had glimpses of that steely determination that was so central to her character. She would never give in to defeat, or to him.
Her eyes caught his upon her once again. They both started and looked quickly back to Trix.
“A new sound crept into the library faint and far away but rapidly growing louder and more ominous. Magdalena’s eyes flew up from the diary in which she wrote. Hoofbeats, approaching fast! It was the Count!
“She closed the diary with a hasty snap. She must hide it, hide it thoroughly and completely where he would never look for it. Her eyes chased wildly about the room, then she made a rapid decision and ran to one of the long rows of dark-bound, mildewed books.
She slid the slim volume of the diary onto a high shelf, between the others very like it in appearance.
“The hoofbeats stopped. Spurred boots crunched on gravel. Magdalena hastened back to the desk. Her hand hesitated momentarily, trembling, as she reached for the long deadly letter opener which would defend her honor. Then she grasped it firmly and carefully slid it into the long, tight sleeve of her gown.
“With her back to the wall, she turned to face the door. Outside the owl screeched once more. The candle sputtered and went out.”
Trix stopped reading and looked up. “Well?” cried Willem in an agony of suspense. "What happens next?” Cornelia Crawley turned to her youngest son. “I don’t know, darling.”
“But, Mama!” laughed Trix. “How could you stop at such a point and leave us all hanging? It isn’t fair.”
“It is quite simple, darling. Magdalena has not yet told me what happens next. I have given her a heart and a mind and a will of her own. And now I must let her tell her story. I am merely her amanuensis.” Then she added with a twinkle, “And besides, one should always leave one’s readers eager to hear more. Now tell me what you think.”
The chorus of acclaim was general, “wonderful,” “dramatic,” and “descriptive” being the various reactions Mina’s response was an eloquent shudder, a very high accolade indeed.
The authoress turned to her eldest son. “Well, Cornelius?”
Very nice, Mama. But you might consider substituting ‘vulnerable’ for ‘warm’ in the ‘small, warm animal’ the screech owl is pursuing. Vulnerable as Magdalena is vulnerable.”
Mama twinkled in approval. “Quite right. I am so glad you thought of that, darling. It is precisely the right touch.”
“Mama?” said Trix. "Why does she hide the diary out in the open like that, right there in the library? Isn’t she afraid the Count will easily find it?”
“Oh, no, darling. For you must know that the very best hiding spot for anything is in the most obvious place, preferably in plain sight. No one ever thinks of looking there, you see. What better place could there be for hiding a diary than in a library full of other books? It just disappears.”
“Oh, yes. I see,” said Trix.
Saskia saw too and felt immensely stupid that she had not thought of it before, specifically when she stood surrounded by shelves of books in the library at Rowbridge Manor. Suppose there was a diary hidden on those shelves. It might just provide the answer to what she had come to call The Mystery of Rowbridge Manor.
Her eyes flew to her cousin. He was still looking at her but rather differently now, as though trying to see into her mind. She could see at once that their minds, as they so often seemed to do, were marching in step along the very same path. He knew her thoughts; she could see it clearly. And he knew she could see it. In that instant they each decided that a careful search of Edward Rowbridge’s library must be made, and as quickly as possible.
They felt that the moment that could decide their futures was very near, that the contest would soon be over.
The evening drew to an end. The words had all been read, the coffee had all been drunk, and Derek prepared to take his leave. Even the usually starchy Ware had grown solicitous. “I’ve brought up a muffler, sir,” he said familiarly. “The wind’s come up, and it’s just started in to rain again.”
“Thank you, Ware,” said Derek, graciously accepting the heavy knit scarf.
Jannie bustled up from the kitchens to speed him on his way. She would never trust a hotel—and particularly not an English hotel—to know what a gentleman liked, so she had wrapped up a parcel of smoked ham, herring,
and cold chicken with some of her sweet koekjes and saw them safely tucked into one of the enormous pockets of his cloak.
“Wei te rusten, Mijnheer,” she gushed good-night “Slaap lekker.”
He was waved off up the street until he disappeared into the drizzle. Saskia watched him go with her mind in a sad jumble, thoughts, worries, and speculations tumbling over each other with abandon. She was glad to escape to her room.
She was soon curled up in the big cozy chair that had become so particularly her own, staring into the fragrantly burning juniper logs as they snapped, hissed, popped, and the blue and yellow flames licked at the wood. Staring into dancing flames had always helped her to order her thoughts. Heaven knew they needed ordering now.
She sat a long time. The candle, as it had done for Magdalena, sputtered and went out, leaving her bathed in the golden glow of the fire. Thoughts chased each other through her mind like the flames chasing each other across the logs, but they couldn’t seem to catch up with each other, linking up into a logical, discoverable pattern.
Only one thing emerged clearly. She felt certain that the secret of bringing to an end this contest that had become so odious to her would be found somewhere within the walls of Rowbridge Manor. She would find that secret.
She laughed softly at herself as the glowing pile of embers collapsed with a crack, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Really, this was impossible! It was very late, and she must get some sleep if she was to rid
e to the Manor in the morning. She would not let Mr. Derek Rowbridge or this blasted contest disturb her highly valued ability to sleep under any and all conditions.
She climbed into the big bed with firm resolution, pulled the curtains close around her with a snap, and settled under the smooth comforter. She closed her eyes very determinedly only to lay awake for most of the remainder of the night.
Chapter Nineteen
The sun made another valiant attempt next morning to dry out the soggy town, and many Bathonians began to hope that the storm was indeed over. The alarming height of the river, which had caused swans to be seen swimming in the Abbey Churchyard, began to recede slightly. The shopkeepers along High Street set about assessing the damage to their wares. As the flooding of the Avon was, at the very least, an annual occurrence, they had not been taken completely unaware. They had cleverly moved most of their goods onto the highest shelves so that what resulted was more in the nature of a nuisance than a catastrophe. Not that that made the cleaning up any the less dirty or the grumbling any the less forceful, but things began returning to normal.