Auntie Mayhem

by Mary Daheim

  An uneasy silence fell between the four women. At last, Judith spoke up. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, “life requires compromise.”

  But Aunt Pet shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. Compromise is a sign of weakness. People who compromise don’t believe in themselves, let alone anything else. If you stand firm, the opposition will surrender. If they don’t, then the cause wasn’t worthy. Honor, that’s what life’s about. If you can’t live with yourself, there’s no point in living.” For the briefest of moments, what might have been uncertainty seemed to flicker across the stern old face. But before Judith could be sure, Aunt Pet eyed Claire with reproach. “Well? What are you waiting for? It’s time for Dora to fix my tonic. Be off with you, shoo!” Aunt Pet motioned Claire and the cousins out of the bedchamber. Dora was last seen skittering around the tower room like a frightened mouse.

  “You mustn’t pay too much attention to Auntie,” Claire cautioned in her apologetic voice. “She doesn’t mean half of what she says. Well, a third, perhaps. Or maybe a—”

  “I like her,” Renie put in as they left the suite via the sitting room, with its faded silks and brooding landscapes.

  “You would,” Judith muttered under her breath. But Claire had heard the comment. Judith gave their hostess a feeble smile. “Your aunt reminds me of my mother. Kind of contrary. Critical, too. It’s part of being old, and hanging on to what little independence is left. Sometimes Renie gets along better with my mother than I do. It happens that way with aunts and nieces. Parents and children don’t always have the same latitude. They’re too close.”

  Eager for harmony, Claire agreed. “Oh! I know! Though I get on splendidly with my own parents. Of course I almost never see them,” she added a bit wistfully, leading the cousins out into a long gallery that seemed to run the length of the house’s core. “They’re missionaries in Swaziland.”

  The gallery contained yet more fine tapestries, classical sculpture, beautifully carved chests, and exquisite paintings. The cousins goggled. Claire, however, kept walking, albeit slowly.

  “More guest room?” she whispered, indicating the mullioned windows and parquet floor. “Or as Nats suggests, a video arcade?”

  Judith gasped. “Oh, no! Why, this is glorious! Wherever did you get all these art treasures?”

  Claire was drifting between what might have been a Rubens and what looked like a Tintoretto. “Oh—I couldn’t say, offhand. Various owners acquired these things. I suppose. And Great-Grandfather was quite a collector. The house was built by Dunk.”

  “Dunk?” Renie had stopped in front of a marble bust of Charles II. She seemed transfixed, either by the lifelike rendering or by the possibility that the old rogue was flirting with her.

  “Sir Lionel Dunk.” Claire had wandered off to stand by a French Renaissance table that held a trio of what looked like Faberge eggs. “Sir Lionel was Master of the Revels under Queen Elizabeth I. Unfortunately, he reveled rather too much and came a cropper. That’s why Little Pauncefoot holds its annual April All Fools Revels.”

  “Did we miss it?” Renie asked hopefully. She had finally torn herself away from King Charles, giving him a parting pat on his marble curls.

  “I’m afraid so,” Claire replied, now moving along the gallery at a brisker pace. “It’s on April first, naturally. Everyone turns out, from Great Pauncefoot and even Yeovil. It lasts two days, and sometimes things get a bit out of hand. Drink, you know. And other things.”

  “What’s the premise?” Renie inquired, no doubt to make amends for her earlier attitude. “Besides get high, I mean.”

  Claire was looking very serious. “The entire festival has an Elizabethan theme. There’s always a short play, usually based on an historical incident. They give readings, too, from writers of the period—Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Sir Philip Sidney. And music and food and fortune telling and games. It’s all based on the last half of the sixteenth century. Oh, the men dress up as women, and vice versa.”

  Judith arched her eyebrows. “A cross-dressing festival? How…interesting.”

  “Not really,” Claire said without enthusiasm. “Sir Lionel—the original builder—was caught wearing Queen Elizabeth’s wig and one of her court dresses, farthingale and all. The Queen was furious. She dismissed Sir Lionel and sent him packing. Back here where the house was a-building. It seemed he’d never be able to complete the project. But Elizabeth died a short time later. King James I came to the throne. He found Sir Lionel very amusing. So the King reinstated him at court. Of course James had some rather extraordinary ideas about…amusements.”

  The King’s alternative lifestyle was forgotten as Claire opened the door at the far end of the gallery. “This is our hideaway,” she said, a trifle embarrassed. “Especially when the twins visit Auntie.”

  The homely room struck a familiar chord. While some of the furniture was old and possibly valuable, the rest included a two-piece sectional sofa, a recliner, a coffee table, and a stack of TV trays. The carpeting was a serviceable wall-to-wall shag, and the only art featured dinosaurs drawn by the twins. The large-screen television, the elaborate stereo setup, and the VCR all had been imported from Japan. The room was just like home.

  “You can’t have children—especially boys—playing Power Rangers in the drawing room,” Claire explained. “The back stairs from the kitchen and the servants’ hall come up through the nursery wing and end here. It’s very convenient.”

  Reflecting on the layout, Judith nodded. “We have our living quarters on the third floor. You could convert all of this and use the gallery as a combination living and dining room without spoiling it too much.”

  Claire seemed dubious. “It’s a great deal of space. I doubt that Charles and I would actually live here. He prefers London, if only because—” At a sound from the far end of the gallery, she gave a start, then turned quickly.

  It was Dora, teetering outside Aunt Pet’s suite. “Oh, Mrs. Charles!” the maid cried, her thin voice echoing off the artworks. “Please! I’m all undone!”

  Claire hurried to intercept the elderly servant. Renie grabbed Judith’s arm. “I don’t smell smoke. Do you suppose she misplaced her matches?”

  Disengaging herself, Judith gave Renie a withering look, then hurried after Claire. Reluctantly, Renie followed, too.

  “What is it, Dora?” Claire inquired. “Has Auntie had a spell?”

  But Dora shook her head, the wisps of gray hair falling limply around her wrinkled face. “It’s angry she is, and all because Cook’s out of biscuits.”

  Claire frowned. “Auntie’s not supposed to eat biscuits. Dr. Ramsey has forbidden sweets.”

  Dora’s faded brown eyes widened. “As if I didn’t know, Mrs. Charles! But your aunt will have her way. If it’s biscuits she wants, it’s biscuits she’ll have, mark my words! Why, she says I must be off to the village to fetch the sort with sugar sprinkles!”

  The shapeless gray dress that hung on Dora’s frail frame seemed to be held up by a starched white apron. The maid’s tiny hands clawed at the air and her small chin trembled. If Aunt Pet was a falcon, Dora was a sparrow.

  Noting Claire’s indecision, Judith intervened. “My cousin and I are going for a stroll through the village.” The fib tripped off Judith’s tongue. “We’d be glad to get the biscuits.”

  Dora practically crumpled with relief. “Could you? Would you? I’d be ever so grateful.” A sudden expression of alarm crossed her pinched little face. “But such cheek! You’re Mr. and Mrs. Charles’s guests!”

  “It’s no bother,” Judith assured the maid. “We were just leaving. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Two minutes later, the cousins were downstairs in the entry hall. Claire was still protesting their generous offer. “Besides,” she added, “Auntie really shouldn’t eat sugar biscuits.”

  Renie waved a hand. “Hey, she’s ninety-four. A couple of cookies won’t kill her. Or,” Renie asked, her savoir-faire momentarily shaken, “is she diabetic?”

  “No, no, i
t’s not that,” Claire answered as the door chimes sounded. “It’s her digestion. She’s supposed to be on a strict, bland diet. Of course she badgers poor Dora to bring her things she shouldn’t eat. Auntie’s quite the scamp.”

  The last words came from over Claire’s shoulder as she hurried to the front door. Judith and Renie held back, waiting for the caller to come in.

  Claire’s reaction, however, wasn’t exactly welcoming. “Oh! Colonel Chelmsford! Whatever are you doing here?”

  Beyond Claire, Judith could make out the figure on the porch. Colonel Chelmsford was wearing a tan Norfolk jacket, brown breeches, brown boots, and held a brown and black checkered snap-brim cap in his hands along with a small parcel. His luxuriant ginger mustache had traces of silver and his complexion was florid. He looked to be in his late sixties, possibly older, but stood at military attention.

  “It’s Miss Ravenscroft I wish to see,” Colonel Chelmsford said in a gruff voice. “Most urgent.”

  Claire’s hands fluttered in agitation. “Oh! But I think not. Auntie won’t be pleased.”

  “Bother Auntie!” the colonel bellowed. “The woman hasn’t been pleased in ninety-four years! Come, come, let me pass.”

  “But…” Despite the protest, Claire stepped aside. Colonel Chelmsford marched into the entry hall, then came to a halt in front of the cousins.

  “What’s this?” he demanded, his hazel eyes hard as agates. “Reinforcements? Stand back, I’m on the move!”

  Obediently, the cousins stepped out of the colonel’s way. He clomped forward, then again came to an abrupt halt. “I say, where are those blasted stairs? I haven’t been in this house since 1955.”

  Hastening to join the colonel, Claire led him toward the main staircase. “This way…I believe the stairs have always been here, though the corridor range in the rear was added around 1785…”

  Left on their own, the cousins exited the house. A moment later, they were following the curving drive that led around the house to the main gate.

  “Wow!” Renie exclaimed as they caught sight of the formal gardens held in the lap of the hill that sloped toward the river. “What a place! All that art—it must be worth a fortune! Why would they be fussing about opening a B&B? They could sell one of those Titians or Van Dycks and use the money to keep up the house for years.”

  “You’d think so.” Judith tore her eyes away from the neatly ordered rows of red, white, yellow, and purple tulips. “Of course we can’t really judge. A setup like this is completely outside the range of our experience.”

  Renie gave a little shrug as they approached the gatehouse. “True. I don’t suppose we spend more than two hundred bucks a year on seeds and bulbs and slug bait.”

  “Don’t forget the fert,” Judith said with a grin.

  “Don’t forget the cookies. Or biscuits,” Renie reminded Judith. “If we can get them at the tea shop, we might be able to cadge a decent meal. I’m still starved.”

  Judith didn’t try to dissuade Renie. She, too, was hungry. They slowed their step as a man appeared from the vicinity of the small orchard beyond the gatehouse. He was bareheaded, under forty, wearing jeans and a denim workshirt. A brief wave of one hand indicated he wanted to speak to the cousins.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” he said with a diffident air. “Did I see Chummy going up to the house?”

  “Chummy?” Judith frowned.

  The man seemed faintly embarrassed, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Sorry. Colonel Chelmsford. From The Grange.” His speech was consciously modulated, as if he had schooled himself.

  Next to Judith, Renie was doing a little dance. “He went to see Miss Ravenscroft. You can catch him when they sound the retreat. ’Bye.”

  The man didn’t budge. Indeed, Judith thought he seemed shocked. It was his voice that gave him away. The well-ordered features showed almost no emotion. Again, Judith had the feeling that he was not only self-disciplined, but self-conscious as well.

  “That can’t be,” he said flatly.

  Ignoring Renie’s impatience, Judith waited for an explanation. But none was forthcoming. “Why is that?” she finally asked.

  The man hesitated, giving Judith more time to study him. He was a shade over six feet, physically fit, and on the cusp of being handsome. The tawny hair was combed straight back to fall just below his collar. Sharp cheekbones and green eyes would ensure his attractiveness to women. But then Judith had always been a sucker for green eyes.

  At last, the man made up his mind. “I’m Walter Paget, the Ravenscroft steward.” He shook hands with Judith. Walter’s grip was firm, but like the rest of him, noncommittal. Judith introduced herself and Renie, who was forced to retrace the twenty yards she’d covered in an effort to reach sustenance.

  “In the twelve years I’ve been at Ravenscroft House,” Walter explained without inflection, “I’ve never known Chummy to set foot on this property. If he’s here, this is quite remarkable.”

  “But he’s a neighbor, isn’t he?” Judith said, pretending she didn’t see Renie, who was again behind Walter and staggering around in the final throes of starvation.

  “Yes, he is.” Walter allowed himself a faint frown. “That’s the problem. Or so it seems. The colonel and Miss Ravenscroft have had a longstanding feud over property lines. You’d think such matters would have been resolved after four hundred years.”

  Judith stared at the steward. “You mean they’ve been arguing since the sixteenth century?”

  A slight smile played at Walter Paget’s lean mouth. It was a very attractive smile. And a very attractive mouth, Judith noted. “Not precisely. Chummy’s ancestors lived at The Grange even before Sir Lionel Dunk built what’s now known as Ravenscroft House. The colonel moved back to his home after he retired from the army some twenty years ago. His father died in February. The old boy refused to deal with Miss Ravenscroft, which may have prolonged the quarrel.”

  Renie was now under the archway, reeling against the wall. With a hand to her forehead, she made as if to slip into oblivion.

  “Ah…yes…wel…” Judith tried not to be distracted by her cousin’s antics. They were hardly new. Renie always seemed to be hungry. “But the Ravenscrofts aren’t Dunks, are they?”

  “They are, actually,” Walter replied. Now, he seemed somewhat distracted, too. His green eyes narrowed in the direction of the main house. “Miss Ravenscroft’s mother was a Dunk. She was an only child, the heiress to the estate. The family had fallen on hard times. Sir Henry Ravenscroft had made his fortune in The City. The Dunks were only too happy to welcome him—and his money—into the family. Excuse me,” Walter said hastily, “I must be off.”

  Judith turned, watching the steward rush toward the house. She realized why he was in such a hurry when she also saw Colonel Chelmsford, who was rounding the curve in the drive, shouting and shaking a fist. It appeared that his visit had not been a success.

  “It’s about time,” Renie said in a testy voice as Judith joined her in the lane. “I’m thinking steak and kidney pie.”

  Judith was hungry, too, but her mind wasn’t on food. She was wondering about the rancor between neighbors. “We shouldn’t take time to sit down and eat,” said Judith as they passed the village green with its border of pansies, primroses, and thorn apple. “We promised Dora we’d be right back. Let’s get some buns or something we can munch on the way.”

  “Buns!” Renie cried. “How about crumbs or gruel or some of your mother’s dreaded clam fritters? Or,” she added in sudden excitement, “do you think they’ll serve high tea? You know, with little sandwiches and cakes and maybe a couple of meringues?”

  “Well…” Judith winced. She had been studying the monuments on the green, which included a life-sized statue of a man in early seventeenth-century garb on a granite base, and the simple stone pillar she’d seen from Alexei’s Alfa. At present, three small boys were chasing each other around the pillar, shouting their heads off. “I think Claire told us we should assemble around si
x-thirty for cocktails. Drinks have replaced high tea, it seems.”

  Renie practically jumped up and down. “That’s crazy! Just drinks? No high tea? What’s wrong with having both? I thought we were in England! We might as well be on Bora-Bora!”

  With a lame smile, Judith steered her irate cousin past the stone church with its ancient graveyard. Early fourteenth century, Judith guessed, from the design of the windows and the spireless bell tower. Like Ravenscroft House and the other buildings in the village, St. Edith’s was also made of the mellow golden stone that Judith assumed was indigenous to the area. Her smile widened as she saw great clumps of daffodils bending in the soft spring breeze. A dogwood tree was beginning to bloom next to what appeared to be the vicarage. And, in the cracks between the stone pavement that led to the High Street, sprigs of fairy flax poked up to greet the sun. Marauding bikers and Taco Bell notwithstanding, Little Pauncefoot seemed quite perfect on this April afternoon.

  Or it was, until a large gray car, whose make Judith didn’t recognize, almost mowed them down. Turning off from the High, its driver misjudged the curb, swerved to avoid a lamppost, and just missed the cousins.

  “Hey, jerk-off,” yelled Renie, “watch it! You want to get your butt sued?”

  The errant driver killed his engine, either accidentally or on purpose. The result was the same: He was left to face Renie, who was in a vengeful mood.

  “Please,” said the offender, sticking his head out the car window, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. My mind was on other things.”

  The long, thin face wore a harried look. The balding man in the conservative suit was about the same age as the cousins. Renie decided to grant mercy.

  “Okay,” she said in a grudging tone. “We’re not used to people driving on the wrong side of the road. Besides, you were going pretty fast for a town this size. Don’t they have speed zones here?”

  The man’s bony fingers tapped the side of the car. Clearly, he was anxious to be off. “Yes, of course. Are you certain you’re not injured?”