by Mary Daheim
“She must go. Or I will.” Without another word, the woman went out through the other door.
Charles gave his wife a questioning look. Claire held up two shaky fingers. “Twice. Mrs. Tichborne’s only threatened to quit twice today.”
Charles uttered a harrumphing sound. “Not bad. Not at all. Perhaps they’ll become quite matey. Millie’s toast is almost never scorched.”
Somewhat desperately, Judith spooned in more soup. She prayed that, for once, Renie would exercise tact. Her cousin’s reaction to the meager, tasteless meal was bound to be critical.
But there was no opportunity for Renie to explode. Alexei and a beautiful young woman, who looked enough like him to be his sister and probably was, sauntered into the dining room. Renie’s face fell when she saw they were each carrying crumpled paper bags bearing the Burger King logo.
“Still lunching?” Alex inquired. His usual breezy manner was a trifle smug.
Renie’s reply was very low: “Not really.”
Her comment was ignored. Claire introduced Natasha Karamzin to the cousins. Natasha lowered herself onto one of the high-backed chairs and dropped her paper bag in the open soup tureen.
“So you’re the hostelry experts,” she said in a languid voice. “What do you think—partition all the bedrooms, box up the valuables, and add four more baths and a Jacuzzi in the turret room?”
Claire had put a finger to her lips. “Hush, Nats. We aren’t to speak of this. Yet.”
Nats waved a hand. “Oh, bilge! Auntie can’t hear. She’s up in that tower of hers, watching the world go by.”
Alex had turned one of the matching chairs around and was straddling it, an insouciant grin on his handsome face. “The world passed her by a good while ago, if you ask me. What’s the point to being ninety-four?”
“Now, Alex…” Claire began, her cheeks turning pink.
Defiantly, Natasha twirled a lock of dark hair in her slim fingers. “I spent six months in L.A. last year. I’ve got tons of ideas for revving up this place. A theme park, maybe. Dinosaurs or vampires.” She gave her brother a taunting smile. “You’d look marvelous in a cape, Alex. But you’d have to drink blood instead of hundred-and-fifty-proof liquor.”
Alex was nonchalant. “Then why bother? I much prefer turning the place into a speedway. I could buy a Lotus and race it. A fast course, plenty of stands, concessions, advertising sponsors—who could ask for more?”
“How about an ambulance?” Renie inquired under her breath. She stared down at her soup plate. “How about a straw?”
Alex had gotten up and gone over to a cupboard that was built next to the sideboard. He opened what turned out to be a small refrigerator and removed a bottle of beer. Wrenching off the cap, he winked at Judith. “My sister’s mad for anything from California. She’d like to turn the High Street into a shopping mall. Why not? Who needs a tea shop when you can have The Gap?”
Nats nodded enthusiastically, her languor replaced by the prospect of Los Angelicizing England. “A Ramada Inn, a Radio Shack, maybe even a Wal-Mart. We could make Little Pauncefoot into a real hot spot.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Renie murmured.
Again, no one but Judith seemed to hear her. Charles pounded the table with his fist. “Now, now! Enough of pipe dreams. We have guests.”
“Precisely,” Nats replied. “American guests who can tell us what to do with this old jumble of rock and make some money instead of pouring every farthing into up-keep.”
Despite Claire’s dismay, Charles gave a short nod. “Apt, very apt. I’ll admit, this house is a parasite. It drains away everything. Taxes. Maintenance. Staff. When you can get them.”
Nats rolled her dark eyes. “Staff! You call that creaking old Harwood and dithering Dora staff? They’ve been here for about a hundred years. As for Mrs. Tichborne, she’s a mean-spirited old cow. The rest come and go, like the weather. Millie used to be a hooker in Yeovil until she got too long in the tooth and fat as a hog.”
“Nats!” Claire was aghast. “That’s not so! Millie ran a…a boardinghouse!”
Nats laughed, a brittle tinkling sound. “It was a whorehouse, Claire. Walter told me.”
“Walter!” Claire seemed shaken. “How would he know?”
Nats shrugged her slim shoulders. “He’s been the Ravenscroft steward for over ten years and worked as a stablehand before that. Why shouldn’t Walter know?”
Claire lowered her head, seemingly absorbed in her soup plate. “It was a boardinghouse,” she whispered. “Most respectable.”
“Well,” Renie said brightly, “it couldn’t have been a restaurant. I’ll vouch for that.” She assumed her middle-aged ingenue’s expression and laid her soup spoon next to her plate.
“The point is,” Nats said in her melodic, careless voice, “we’re interested in turning a profit on this place. How long do you think it would take to renovate it, or should we tear it down and start over with a condominium high-rise? I saw some terrific examples in the Hollywood Hills.” Her limpid black eyes rested on Judith.
“Oh, no,” Judith answered quickly. “That would be…sacrilege. This is a marvelous house. It has tremendous possibilities. Not everybody wants modern glitz. Of course you needn’t limit yourselves to a B&B. You could consider turning it into a small luxury hotel.”
Again, Claire was looking alarmed. “Please. Not now. Auntie might be…” She shifted in her chair, staring at the door that opened onto the entry hall.
“Oh, stow it, Claire,” Nats said sharply. “Auntie almost never comes downstairs during the day. Or do you think she’s put a wire in the chandelier?”
Claire looked as if she wouldn’t doubt it. “Auntie likes to know what’s going on,” she said to Judith, with her eternal air of apology. “That’s why she spends her days looking out the turret window. She can’t read much any more. She never watched the telly.”
Alexei tipped the beer bottle to his lips. “Auntie can’t walk. Auntie can’t see. Auntie can’t eat anything but thin gruel. Do tell me the point of it all,” he demanded in a querulous voice. “Why doesn’t the old buzzard get it over with and die?”
Claire let out a little squeal; Charles muttered his disapproval. But Nats tossed her head, the short, chic raven tresses dancing. “Oh, do be honest!” She turned to first one Marchmont, then the other. “You both feel the same way. This family doesn’t mark time by counting the days until Whitsunday or Michaelmas or Harrod’s annual clearance sale. We’re all sitting around waiting for Aunt Pet to die. We live off her every whim, we jump whenever she cocks a furry white eyebrow, we couldn’t afford tinned tuna if she didn’t dole out the money. We’re like marionettes, jerked about on strings. We wish she were dead because as long as she’s alive, we’re her hostages. Well?” Nats’s small, molded chin shot up. “We are, aren’t we?”
Nobody said a word.
FOUR
IT WAS WITH some trepidation that Judith and Renie ascended via the turret backstairs to the tower bedroom where Petulia Ravenscroft was ensconced. Between the unflattering portrait of Aunt Pet and the embarrassing exchange in the dining room, the cousins felt as if they were about to enter the lair of a dragon.
Nor did their first encounter reassure them. The tiny, decrepit maid who showed them into Aunt Pet’s suite was Dora Hobbs, who, along with Harwood, was the other longtime servant Natasha had mentioned at lunch. The room itself appeared to have been virtually unchanged since the reign of Queen Victoria, and was furnished with heavy dark oak, heavy velvet drapes, heavy damask bed hangings, and ugly, sentimental knick-knacks cluttering every possible surface. The only saving grace was a pair of oriel windows that let in the sunlight and apparently provided Aunt Pet with her view of the village’s comings and goings.
As Dora fussed and fretted, Judith tried to find Aunt Pet. Through an open door, she could see a sitting room that appeared as laden with furnishings as the bed chamber. But Claire was fidgeting in the vicinity of an imposing bureau some ten draw
ers high. Finally Judith realized that the old woman was sitting in a brocade-covered chair by the window. Only the top of her white head could be seen over the high back.
“Well?” The voice was surprisingly strong. “What is it, Dora? Have you got Claire with you?”
Dora was clearly too intimidated to reply. With a tentative step, Claire moved away from the bureau and approached Aunt Pet with the deference due an empress.
“It’s me, Auntie. I’ve brought guests. Americans. Friends of Margaret…and Charles.”
“Didn’t know Margaret and Charles had any friends,” muttered Aunt Pet. “Especially American friends. Now how can that be?”
Petulia Ravenscroft turned slightly, with effort. She looked up at Judith and Renie, and apparently didn’t much like what she saw.
“Pants! Why must you women wear pants, except to hunt? Don’t you own a skirt?” Her bright blue eyes raked over Claire. “You, too—what’s this? You been riding this morning? Only excuse for pants. Better not see you come to dinner in that ungodly outfit!”
Claire kneaded her smart gray flannel slacks as if she could erase them with her fingers. “I was…surveying the formal gardens. Of course I’ll dress tonight. Silk.”
Aunt Pet’s severe white eyebrows arched. “Long?”
Claire nodded in a jerky manner. “Long. Naturally. Very long.”
“And pearls.” Aunt Pet seemed assuaged, then suddenly swerved her head to pierce the cousins with a look that could have cut brick. “And you? Silk or chiffon?”
Judith stammered. “Ah…well…I’m not sure. Yet.”
Renie nudged Judith. “We have to brush our clothes,” she said. “Or sponge them. I forget.”
“Then remember,” Pet huffed, but she seemed somewhat pacified. “Americans, eh? Why?”
“Ah…” Judith was still at an uncharacteristic loss for words.
“It was an accident,” Renie explained. “Our great-grandparents thought they were just on a trip. To the Chicago Exposition. But they sort of got lost and ended up staying for…the rest of their lives.”
The account was true, if abbreviated. Along with their son and daughter, Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother Grover had set sail from England to visit America for a few weeks. But their great-grandfather’s extravagances had led them into debt and put them to work. An ill-fated venture into Nebraska had left the Grovers at the mercy of bandits. Impoverished and indignant, they had fled West, avoiding more work and a growing number of creditors. By the time they reached the Northwest corner, they had been forced to stay with émigré relatives. It had literally taken an Act of Congress to make restitution for the hold-up, but by that time it was too late. The son and daughter had both married and started families of their own. The Grovers had never gone home.
“Excusable,” allowed Aunt Pet. “That was—when?”
Renie considered. “In 1895, I think. I’m not much at math.”
Pet snorted. “You’re not much at clothes, either. Where did you get that outfit?”
Renie gazed down at her modified sweatsuit. “I forget. Costco?”
Aunt Pet looked pained. With equal disfavor, her shrewd sapphire eyes raked over Judith’s cotton blouse and slacks. “Scandalous,” she declared. “Women have no pride these days. Who can blame the world for being in such a disreputable state? It’s up to the women to set the tone. Look at you!”
Judith, however, was looking at Petulia Ravenscroft. She was sitting ramrod-straight, white hair piled high on her head and kept in place with a plethora of ivory combs. Her fine white skin was stretched taut over good bones, exhibiting surprisingly few wrinkles. Pet’s sharp features, particularly the down-turned nose, suggested a falcon, waiting to pounce on its prey. Petulia Ravenscroft had never been a beauty, Judith judged, but she must have been striking. Indeed, the old lady was still handsome, in a fierce, forceful kind of way.
Noting Aunt Pet’s long black dress with its high collar and cameo brooch, Judith sought a more neutral topic than female apparel. “This house is wonderful. And your view is lovely.”
Indeed it was, taking in the gardens at the rear of the house, the outbuildings and a corner of pastureland, the walnut trees that lined the property, and almost all of the village green with its shield of horsechestnuts and holly. But if Aunt Pet was pleased by Judith’s remark, only the merest flicker of her eyelids betrayed the fact. “Old houses require constant care. I refuse to allow any sign of neglect. You Americans build and tear down, create and destroy. No sense of history, no pride. Serves you right when people riot. Might as well burn your cities. What’s the point in saving trash?”
Claire put a hand on the brocade chair. “Now Auntie—” she began.
But Renie interrupted. “You’re absolutely right, Miss Ravenscroft. My husband, Bill, says that one of the biggest problems with America’s inner cities is the property tax structure. The worse shape a building’s in, the less the tax. Landlords—slumlords—get a break by letting their holdings fall apart. If local governments reversed the system, then owners would be forced into making repairs and stopping the decay that contributes to unrest among—”
“—my souvenirs,” Judith put in, with a firm nudge for Renie. As Judith knew all too well, when Renie got launched on one of Bill’s hobbyhorses, the ride could take all day. “Photos, I mean. Of the house, to take home and show our friends and family.” She winced a little, thinking of Gertrude’s reaction to the Ravenscroft estate. Judith’s mother would either take the English to task for wasting money on white elephants or ask what the hell their hosts were doing living in a mental hospital.
Aunt Pet ignored Judith. Instead, she fixed Renie with those hard blue eyes and offered the hint of a smile. “Astute. Very astute. Where is this Bill? I’d like to meet him.”
Renie gave Aunt Pet a helpless look. “He went fishing. In Scotland.”
“Scotland! A backward place. Can’t understand a word they say. Doubt if it’s English.” Feebly, Aunt Pet moved her hands in an attempt at scorn. But the fingers were stiff and the joints were swollen. Carefully, she rested first one hand and then the other on the brown and yellow afghan that covered her lap. “Why would Bill do such a thing? He sounds so sensible, otherwise.”
Happily, Renie was spared an explanation. Aunt Pet had turned to the windows, her gaze caught by a figure out on the green. “See there? Colonel Chelmsford, the old black-guard, heading for The Hare. Three o’clock. Every day, off to drink the pub dry, set your watch by him. Jackanapes.”
Sure enough, a stiff-legged figure in varying shades of brown was trudging across the village green toward the lane. “Goodness,” said Judith in admiration, “your eyesight must be very keen, Miss Ravenscroft.”
Aunt Pet snorted. “At a distance, it’s still usable, especially with eyeglasses. I didn’t bother with them until two years ago. Troublesome, that’s what they are. Always getting mislaid and Dora can never find them. You’d be astounded by some of the sights I’ve seen out this window. People think no one’s watching. Some of them behave in a most shocking manner. Worse than shocking.” For a brief moment, her sharp features quivered, as if in revulsion. Then she lifted her pointed chin and gave the cousins a rueful look. “Can scarcely see a thing up close. Had to give up reading and solving the jumble puzzles. A great nuisance, but nobody’s written a decent book since R. L. Delderfield. And even he was inclined to smut. Won’t tolerate smut. Life’s full of ugliness—why write about it?”
As Judith recalled, R. L. Delderfield’s works were very tame. But that was by her own standards, not Aunt Pet’s. Maybe, if she thought hard enough, she’d remember that he’d used such provocative words as “thigh” and “lips.”
Aunt Pet had turned away from her view. She was eyeing Claire suspiciously. “Well? Why are you looking like that?”
Claire’s nostrils twitched. “Ah…I believe I smell smoke.”
Aunt Pet was now also sniffing, the beaklike nose taking on a life of its own. “Where’s Dora?”
Judith smelled smoke, too. Claire practically galloped out of the room. Judith started to follow her, but Aunt called out in a crisp voice:
“Claire will tend to it. Dora’s inclined to set fires. It’s probably The Times. No great loss.”
A swift perusal of the room showed no signs of a smoke detector. At home, that would be the first requirement for a hostelry. Judith gave Aunt Pet an inquiring look. “Does Dora do it often?”
Aunt Pet shrugged. “Whenever she feels threatened. You’re strangers. She’s probably frightened.”
“I’m frightened,” Renie put in. “I’m not crazy about the idea of having a pyromaniac loose.”
But Aunt Pet scoffed at Renie’s fears. “My eyes and ears may not be what they were, but I have a very keen sense of smell. I always know when Dora’s playing with matches. The most we’ve ever lost is a velvet cushion.”
Breathless, Claire had returned. “It’s all right, Auntie. It was only an antimacassar. One of the ugly ones. I insisted Dora make herself a nice cup of tea.”
Aunt Pet nodded, then turned to the cousins. “Dora has a hot plate in her quarters, on the other side of my sitting room. And no,” she went on, taking in Renie’s expression of horror, “she’s never set a fire with it. Matches, that’s what I said. That’s what I meant.” Now she swiveled in Claire’s direction. “I always say what I mean, don’t I, child?”
Claire nodded jerkily. “Oh! Definitely! You’re not one for falsehoods. Or exaggerations. Or…any of those things.” Claire’s voice died away.
“I don’t take things back, either.” Aunt Pet did her best at folding her crippled hands in her lap. The sharp profile tilted upward. “Never make threats you don’t intend to carry out. Never go back on your word. Never give in.”