Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  “It’s a gatehouse!” Judith exclaimed, and her mind began to race with possibilities. The two floors, with the top story built over the drive, probably wouldn’t accommodate more than three guest rooms. The kitchen was bound to be small, and extra baths would present a problem. But the setting was wonderful, just off the village green and apparently close to the river. So wrapped up in her plans was Judith that she didn’t at first realize they hadn’t come to a full stop. Instead, they were cruising up a curving gravel drive lined with plane trees, narcissus, and jonquils. At the crest of the gentle slope, Alexei finally braked.

  “Ravenscroft House,” he said in a careless voice. “I do hope they’ve sent out for pizza.”

  Judith scarcely heard Alexei. Her mouth fell open. This was no cozy thatched cottage. Ravenscroft House was magnificent. Judith felt like pinching herself. Instead, she merely stared. And stared some more.

  THREE

  THE STRUCTURE THAT lay before her was three symmetrical stories of late-Elizabethan limestone, with wings at each end, a projecting porch, and great mullioned windows that reflected the afternoon sun like gold nuggets on a chamois cloth.

  Alexei had punched the button to open the trunk and was now jerking the keys out of the ignition. “Quite the old pile, eh?” He jumped from the Alfa and began striding toward the entrance.

  “Holy Mother!” Judith breathed. Her eyes traveled from the statuary that stood in niches along the top floor to the Renaissance lozenge over the entrance. At the rear of the house, the hint of turrets rose over the roof and its various chimneys. Judith was utterly dazzled.

  “Hey!” Renie clawed at her cousin’s navy slacks. “Move it, you twit! I haven’t been in a position like this since I was a fetus!”

  “Oh!” Startled, Judith fumbled with the door, then struggled to get out of the low-slung car. She stopped gawking long enough to help Renie.

  Unfolding herself, Renie started to chide Judith, then caught sight of the magnificent building. “Oh, good Lord! Is this…it?”

  Dumbly, Judith nodded. The cousins both stared, drinking in the four-hundred-year-old house, the manicured grounds, the splashes of spring flowers, and the enormity of finding themselves in such a place.

  “Ravenscroft House,” Judith murmured. “It’s like something out of Country Life.”

  “Or my dreams,” Renie said in a hushed voice.

  But Ravenscroft House was real enough, and as if to prove it, a stately butler appeared just after Alexei went inside.

  “Harwood, at your service.” He spoke in a precise wheeze, and his bow was almost imperceptible.

  “Thanks, Harwood,” Renie replied. “We’ve got two suitcases. They’re big and they’re battered, so don’t worry if you drop them.”

  Harwood looked askance, if only for a split second. Then, much like a racing yacht bending into the wind, he proceeded to remove the cousins’ luggage, one case at a time.

  As Judith and Renie ascended the three steps that led to the enclosed porch, Claire Marchmont rushed out to greet them. “Oh! You’re here! Thank goodness! Oh! This is…delightful!”

  Judith felt almost as disconcerted as her hostess. She tried not to gape at the tapestries and paintings that lined what she assumed was the original screens passage but now served as the entry hall.

  “This is breathtaking,” Judith declared, tearing her eyes away from the larger-than-life statues of Minerva, Venus, Aurora, and Diana. “I had no idea Ravenscroft House was so…vast. It’s much grander than Hillside Manor.” The understatement almost choked her.

  Claire, however, didn’t take the remark as a compliment. “That’s the very problem. It’s going to require a great deal of work and expense to make it into a guest house. Eventually,” she added quickly, and looked over her shoulder as if someone were eavesdropping.

  No one was, unless it was Harwood, who was carrying Renie’s black suitcase as he wheezed his way out of the entry hall and disappeared.

  “I’ll show you your rooms,” Claire said, remembering her duties as a hostess. “Then we’ll lunch.”

  Renie gave Claire an uncertain smile. “Has the pizza truck arrived?”

  Claire’s oval face puckered slightly, then she laughed, a light, tentative sound. “Oh, Alexei! He’s a bit of a tease. Though he is fond of pizza. And yes,” Claire continued, leading them through a stone screen decorated with Corinthian columns and ornate strapwork, “they definitely deliver to Ravenscroft House. You’d be surprised at how things have changed here over the years.”

  “I would,” Judith replied. “I am.” They were passing through what appeared to be the main hall with an impressive collection of antique furnishings and portraits that spanned at least four centuries. Ruffs, perukes, muttonchops and cloches marked the passing of time as well as fashion. Even the more modern school was represented with an abstract painting, presumably of a woman in red. Or maybe it was a British phone booth. Judith wasn’t sure. More easily recognizable was a youthful Claire Marchmont in white tulle near the door that led to the main staircase. Judith was particularly taken with two paintings of what she guessed was the same young woman, a beautiful brunette who had posed in her teens wearing classic chiffon with a brocade bodice. The butter-yellow gown reminded Judith of her own high school prom dress. Later, in maturity, the brunette wore emerald-green satin and a bouffant hairstyle. Again, Judith felt a whiff of nostalgia.

  “The portraits are wonderful,” Judith remarked, pausing by the brunette beauty’s paintings. “Did the family commission local artists or bring them in from London?”

  A faint look of alarm crossed Claire’s face. Judith wondered if it was an expression of genuine dismay or a nervous habit.

  “Oh!” Claire exclaimed, putting a tentative hand at Judith’s elbow, “I can only speak for my own sitting. An artist who summered at Lyme Regis was recommended. He was very bad-tempered. But good. As a painter. That is.”

  Claire had steered Judith to the staircase. “We’re lucky here. I suppose,” Claire continued, speaking rapidly. “Unlike so many villages closer to London, Little Pauncefoot hasn’t been spoiled by mini-marts and gas stations and housing developments.” Her voice held a note of doubt as they ascended the stairs amid walls lined with more Flemish tapestries. “It’s really quite unchanged from what I remember as a child. Between here and Great Pauncefoot, there are still farms and orchards. But in the other direction toward Yeovil, there is almost no distinction between the village and the town. We’re just five minutes from Taco Bell.” The idea seemed to please Claire, whose delivery had slowed.

  It didn’t have the same effect on Judith. She said nothing, as they traipsed along a paneled corridor. Harwood was coming through a door, looking as if he were about to collapse. He gave Claire a deferential nod in passing.

  Claire hesitated, her eyes flitting from cousin to cousin. “Oh! That bag was…?” Renie waggled a hand. Claire looked relieved. “Then this is your room…Renie.” The nickname tumbled off her tongue as if she were tasting it to make sure it wasn’t too spicy. Claire indicated the door across the wide corridor. “This is yours, Judith. Ordinarily, we have five extra rooms, but with Alexei and Natasha spending the weekend, we have only three. I hope they’ll do. Unfortunately, there are just two baths on this floor. I’ve already spoken with Alex and Nats about sharing.”

  The cousins agreed that sharing was fine. Each of their appointed bedrooms was large, airy, and full of furniture that looked as if it should be housed in a museum. Renie had a nineteenth-century sleigh bed; Judith’s curtained and canopied four-poster probably had come with the house.

  Trying to contain their elation at such luxury, the cousins bounded back and forth between the elegant bedrooms. Claire, however, was apologetic.

  “Things are not what they once were,” she lamented. “Auntie has had to cut staff. Or, I should say, not replace them. Harwood and Auntie’s maid, Dora, are all that’s left of the old servants. Dora’s very frail, and Harwood’s never been the same s
ince his knee was shattered at Messina during the Second World War. But of course the family was elated to get him back after he was invalided out of the service. The war took a terrible toll on the servant class. They wanted to do other things after demobilization. It’s been very hard on people like Aunt Pet. Nowadays, we have to make do with Mrs. Tichborne, the housekeeper, and dailies from Great Pauncefoot. The same is true with the gardeners. The Beaker brothers come only once a week. Luckily, there are four of them.”

  Judith was still smiling. “No problem, Claire. The only help I have at Hillside Manor is a cleaning woman, Phyliss Rackley. She’s a daily, too. I guess.” Phyliss, with her fundamentalist credo and rampant hypochondria, was sometimes a daily pain in the neck. But she worked hard, and Judith couldn’t run the B&B without her.

  Harwood had reappeared, staggering down the corridor with Judith’s brown suitcase. Figuring him for over seventy, Judith at first wanted to offer to carry the luggage for him. But she realized the man had pride; a simple thankyou tumbled from her lips as he wheezed into the bedroom.

  “By the way,” Judith said, going to her suitcase, “we brought you a couple of small hostess gifts from home.” She rummaged through her belongings, finally hauling out an assortment of Moonbeam’s exotic coffee beans and three boxes of Fandangos, Donner & Blitzen Department Store’s prized chocolate truffles. The presents had been intended for Margaret, but it was only fitting to hand them over to Claire.

  “Oh! Thank you!” Looking somewhat bewildered, Claire juggled the bags and boxes. “That’s ever so kind! Charles will be delighted.” Still appearing ill-at-ease, she suggested that the cousins rest a bit before luncheon.

  Renie demurred. “Rest? From what? Sitting on our dead duffs? We can eat any time as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well…” Claire seemed flustered. “I’m not sure when Charles will get back from his appointment. And I don’t know where Nats is.”

  “Nats?” Judith recalled the earlier reference. “That’s…who? Another cousin?”

  Claire nodded. “Natasha Karamzin, Alexei’s sister. I had no idea they were coming down for the weekend until they arrived this morning in Alex’s car. I hope you don’t mind. They’re rather engaging. Once you get used to them. Maybe.”

  RAVENSCROFT FAMILY TREE

  Judith couldn’t pin Natasha or Alexei Karamzin on the family tree. They were obviously related to Claire, not Charles. Ordinarily, Judith would have been forthright in asking about the relationship. But out of respect for British reserve, she said nothing.

  Renie, however, had no such qualms. “Those are Russian names,” she remarked. “How come?”

  Claire sighed as she led her guests back to the main staircase. “It’s rather complicated. My grandfather’s brother, Oakley, married a Frenchwoman. He was killed at Dunkerque. Two months later, his widow, Genevieve, gave birth. Genevieve spent the rest of her life at Ravenscroft House.” Claire paused halfway down the stairs, glancing back at Judith. “She had the room you’re using, as a matter of fact. She died nine years ago. A most charming woman was Great-Aunt Gen.” Claire gave the nickname a French pronunciation, as if had been “John.”

  The cousins followed Claire through the big hall. “Great-Uncle Oakley and Great-Aunt Gen’s daughter, Fleur, married Viktor Karamzin, a Russian emigre. They were killed in an auto accident in Switzerland three years ago.” Claire glanced at Renie. “You have what was their room. Alex and Nats are their children.”

  Judith recalled that Margaret had mentioned the deaths of Genevieve and the senior Karamzins in her letters. In Judith’s mind, more sprigs were added to the family tree.

  The dining room was paneled in handsome mahogany, but was more intimate than Judith had expected. The craftsmanship also seemed to date from a later period than the rest of the house. At the trestle table, Claire indicated chairs for the cousins.

  Anticipating the arrival of a savory meal, Renie watched the door with eager brown eyes. But when a figure entered the dining room, it wasn’t a servant carrying steaming covered dishes, but a middle-aged man wiping his brow. He stopped as soon as he saw the cousins, and turned very red.

  “My word! Our guests! I say, I hope you haven’t waited for me!” Charles Marchmont hurried forward to shake hands, first with Judith, then with Renie. “I would have known you anywhere,” he insisted. “You haven’t changed one whit since I saw you in…ah, what was it?”

  Judith supplied the year of their previous trip. She and Renie both expressed appreciation for their host’s gallantry. The words weren’t true, of course, nor would the cousins return the compliment. Charles Marchmont was a far cry from the diffident, awkward adolescent they had met in 1964. Now that he was in his mid-forties, his light brown hair was beginning to recede, he was thickening around the waist, and his blunt features stopped just short of being coarse. But, Judith noted, he had no spots.

  Charles demanded to hear everything about the cousin’ trip thus far, their impressions of England, and what had happened with them during the thirty-year interval. But while he graciously posed questions, he never gave either Judith or Renie a chance to finish a sentence:

  “We flew from home the Friday after Easter—” Judith began.

  “My word!” Charles wagged a stubby finger. “I do hope you didn’t pay full price. Air fares are exorbitant. Knew a chap at Lloyd’s who spent two thousand quid on a flight to Toronto. Imagine!”

  “Actually,” Renie said, one eye cast wistfully on the door that seemed to lead into the kitchen, “our bank cards allow us credits we can put toward airline—”

  “These banks!” Charles exclaimed. “Shocking interest rates! Had a mind to buy a new Land Rover last winter. Thought it might be wise to pay for it on time. Nonsense! Much better to pay cash. Usury, that’s what I call it.” Again, Charles turned very red.

  Claire, however, turned not a hair. Apparently, she was accustomed to her husband’s bluster. Before anyone dared make a further comment, the kitchen door finally swung open, and a stout woman with graying red hair scattered every which way on her head, huffed and puffed into the dining room. She carried a huge tureen and had two soup plates tucked precariously under each elbow.

  “There you go, ducks,” she announced, plunking the tureen down on a hot pad hastily improvised by Claire. “Leeks you wanted, leeks you get. Anybody for bread or a handful of crisps?”

  “Oh, Millie,” Claire said in a meek voice, “don’t trouble yourself. We’ll be just fine. Though perhaps some tea? Or coffee?” She glanced inquiringly at her American visitors.

  “Tea’s fine,” Judith said hastily.

  Millie’s broad face frowned at her employer. “I’ve no time to make tea. I’m due at the colonel’s in ten minutes. It’s my day to buff him up.”

  Claire’s face fell. “Oh. Well, certainly. I’m sorry, Millie. I’ll put the kettle on myself.”

  “You just do that,” Millie said, waddling out of the room.

  To Judith’s surprise, Charles Marchmont didn’t seem fazed by the part-time cook’s breezy manner. Indeed, he had gotten to his feet and was ladling out soup. Pale green in color, it had the consistency of bathwater. Judith tried to ignore Renie’s grimace.

  “Your sister, Margaret, served us wonderful meals,” Renie said in a pathetic little voice. “Every so often, I dream about them. Like now.”

  Charles frowned, but didn’t look at Renie. “Margaret? Yes, fine cook, Margaret. She had no help then, of course. Bootstraps, that’s what it was. Brought myself up through hard work and diligent effort. Fishmongering was well and good for Margaret’s husband, but I wanted to make something of myself. Architecture, that was the thing—until I realized I didn’t have the head for it. So I made my way in The City, and we’ve done well by one another, if I do say so myself.” Charles’s chest expanded along with his paunch.

  “I understand,” Judith said in a mild voice, “that Donald has carried on the fishmongering business very successfully. He and Margaret travel quite
a bit.”

  “Yes, yes,” Charles agreed, sitting back down. “Donald has a good head on his shoulders. Computerized the operation and all that. The pater wouldn’t have turned everything over to his son-in-law if he hadn’t. But I set my own sights higher. Couldn’t stand the reek of fish, frankly. Money smells much nicer.” He chuckled into his spoon.

  They had just begun sipping their soup when a loud crash resounded from the direction of the kitchen. Claire jumped, spilling the contents of her spoon onto her lap. Fortunately, the soup was lukewarm.

  Shouts ensued, Millie and another female, both angry and hurling insults. Charles patted his mouth with his napkin and gave his wife a faintly chiding look.

  “Really, m’dear, you ought to speak to Mrs. Tichborne. It would be much better if she tried to put a good face on it and cooperate with Millie. She’s all we’ve got when it comes to cooking.”

  “She is?” Renie was horrified.

  “Not really,” Claire said quickly, her hands trembling slightly as she mopped up her lap. “That is, Mrs. Tichborne—the housekeeper—does the evening meals. She’s very good.”

  Renie slumped in her chair, apparently relieved. The shouts from the kitchen continued, and Charles looked as if he was about to rise when a door slammed, ending the fracas.

  Claire fanned herself with an extra napkin. “Oh! Millie’s gone! I’m so glad! She might have been late for the colonel! He can be rather beastly when it comes to tardiness.”

  “The colonel?” Judith asked, not out of curiosity but to steer the conversation onto a more neutral course.

  “Colonel Chelmsford,” Charles replied, seemingly happy with his soup. “Chummy, we call him. Old bugger, really—excuse my language—but county through and through. Years ago, his grandfather, Bertram, was quite the big noise around these parts. Dead now, of course. The Chelmsford property borders ours.”

  Given the standards of Ravenscroft House, Judith wondered if the colonel lived in a palace that resembled Sandringham. She was searching for yet another conversational gambit when a tall, gaunt woman in a severe gray dress entered the dining room. Her colorless eyes flickered over the cousins, locked briefly with Charles’s bland blue gaze, and then came to rest on Claire with the force of a branding iron.