by Mary Daheim
“Mrs. Tichborne is a fine cook,” Charles confided, spearing fresh asparagus. “Bloody shame she doesn’t do all the meals.”
“The dinner is excellent,” Judith enthused, noting that for someone on a strict diet, Aunt Pet seemed to keep pace with the rest of the diners. “Has Mrs. Tichborne been here a long time?”
Charles paused, fork in right hand, knife in left. Judith was reminded of Grandpa Grover’s curious eating habits. “I believe she has. Twenty years, more or less. Good woman, under that crusty exterior.”
Judith nodded, tasting the exquisite new potatoes with just a hint of garlic and parsley. “Is the…serving girl her daughter?”
To Judith’s surprise, Charles shuddered. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then shook his head. “No, no. That’s some girl from the village. Not sure who. They come and go. Mrs. Tichborne’s daughter…disappeared.” He put the napkin back in his lap. “It was years ago.”
The unknown teenager was now removing dinner plates from those who had finished. Judith swallowed the last bite of lamb and allowed her elegant piece of Wedgwood china to be taken away. On her right, Alex was chortling.
“Tichborne will hear about this,” he said, lighting up a gold-tipped cigarette. “Saddle of lamb costs the world. Aunt Pet won’t like it.”
But Aunt Pet appeared to be in a festive mood. At the other end of the table, she was engaging Arthur Tinsley in a conversation that seemed to challenge his professional ambivalence. Renie, meanwhile, was speaking quite seriously with Walter Paget. Perhaps he was unburdening himself of his problems funding the Ravenscroft bloodstock.
Dessert was a chocolate mousse, with freshly baked lady-fingers. Judith marveled. It was no wonder that Mrs. Tichborne had been curt with the cousins. Obviously, she had had a great deal to do in preparing the dinner. In perfect contentment, Judith sipped her excellent coffee, and idly wondered if they’d all adjourn to the parlor for a rousing game of Happy Families.
But that was not what was on Aunt Pet’s mind. After the dessert dishes had been taken away, the old woman tapped a spoon on her empty wineglass. Conversation evaporated, and all eyes turned to the far end of the table.
“This dining room used to seat many more family members than it does tonight,” she said in her strong, clear voice. “We’ve had our share of tragedies, some too heart-breaking to mention. In the last few years, we’ve suffered terrible losses. That’s why I always wear mourning.” Pet’s crippled hand trickled over the long black taffeta gown with its stark ornamentation of pearl ropes. The diners involuntarily bowed their heads. For a fleeting moment, Aunt Pet’s eyes grew unnaturally bright. “So the family circle closes, getting smaller and smaller. I suppose that’s not all bad for the rest of you.”
Judith saw Claire cast a nervous glance at her aunt. Charles fumbled with his napkin. Alex and Nats exchanged wary, surreptitious looks. Walter seemed ill at ease, while Arthur made an effort to appear detached. Mrs. Tichborne had slipped quietly into the dining room.
“There’s no point in being coy,” Aunt Pet continued. “I’d be a fool not to know you’re all wondering what will happen after I die. That’s what Arthur here and I’ve been discussing this afternoon. Oh, I’ve made wills in the past, but I’ve had to revoke them. Too much outrageous behavior on the part of certain persons, too many of my beneficiaries up and died. Now I’m making a new will. Don’t think I can’t see through you. All of you. And before anybody gets their hopes up, I don’t intend to meet my Maker just yet. I’m not going anywhere, except to bed. Good night.”
With that remarkable speech, Aunt Pet signaled for Walter and Arthur to carry her upstairs. Naturally, they didn’t dare demur.
For several minutes after Aunt Pet’s departure, the only sound was the wind. The old house seemed to sigh. With a sudden shiver, Judith wondered if it yearned for peace.
She sensed that even at ninety-four, Aunt Pet preferred war.
SIX
SATURDAY BROUGHT DRIZZLE, and an occasional glimpse of sun. It was typical for April, with weather that the cousins knew well. The climates of England and the Pacific Northwest were very similar.
Charles and Claire insisted on devoting their day to showing Judith and Renie the sights. The Marchmont Bentley purred along narrow roads, effortlessly carrying its passengers over the soft hills of Somerset. Small, almost perfect villages, many with thatched roofs and whitewashed walls, nestled in the valleys. There were inns and churches and farms, all brightened by spring flowers, blossoming fruit trees, lush shrubs, and that orderly chaos known as the English country garden.
They stopped to view the quietly imposing cathedral at Wells, the stark ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, the enduring magnificence of Dunster Castle. The cousins were awed by the sheer rock face of Cheddar Gorge, impressed by the heath-covered expanse of Exmoor, and charmed by the breathtaking panorama from Cothelstone Beacon.
By the time they returned to Ravenscroft House shortly after three-thirty, Judith and Renie admitted to fatigue. Claire was more frank:
“I must lie down for a while,” she said with a guilty little smile. “There’s so much to see in such a small area. Perhaps tomorrow we can go out again. You really should get to Devon and Cornwall.”
Judith protested politely, though she knew that after a good night’s rest, she and Renie would be delighted to see more of the nearby sights. Meanwhile, they were expected to take tea with Aunt Pet. The old lady wasn’t coming down to dinner, and she’d extended the invitation before the cousins left in the morning.
Judith and Renie trudged up the main staircase. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to unwind before cocktails,” Judith said hopefully. “I envy Claire’s afternoon siestas.”
“The only time I ever nap is when I fall facedown on my drafting board,” Renie remarked. “Claire’s a lot younger than we are. I’ll bet she doesn’t work half as hard, either.”
The cousins had almost reached the third floor when Natasha came hurrying down the stairs, her face a mask of fury. She paused, barring the way.
“If you’re going to see the old dragon, forget it. She’s got my brother in there. It’s his turn to get bloody hell. I hope Aunt Pet chokes on her stupid tea!”
Nats started down the rest of the stairs, but Judith called after her. “Is something wrong? I mean, has something happened while we were out?”
Nats’s dark eyes flashed. “Nothing that should concern you. It’s strictly a family affair. Just be thankful the old bitch isn’t trying to run your life!” She continued on her angry way.
Judith fingered the carved balustrade with its oak garlands and ivy. “We might as well go back to our rooms and change. We’re wearing pants.”
But before they could reach the landing, a man’s voice reverberated in the stairwell: “You’re coldhearted, that’s what you are! Family, my frigging arse!” A door slammed, and Alex appeared, hurrying as fast and furiously as his sister. He brushed past the cousins with only a muttered apology.
“Well?” Renie eyed Judith. “Shall we keep our pants on and take tea with Aunt Pet?”
Judith considered, then nodded. “It’s four, and she’s expecting us. We want to be punctual. I dare you to tell her your name isn’t Renee, but Renie.”
“With her money, she can call me Beanie. Did you notice that Claire and Charles never mentioned Aunt Pet’s State of the Union message?”
“English reserve,” Judith declared, rapping twice on Aunt Pet’s door. “It would also have been in poor taste.”
“So was the speech,” Renie replied. “In a way. I mean, we’re strangers, and Walter and Arthur aren’t family. Neither is Mrs. Tichborne.”
Judith rapped again. “But Arthur’s treated like a family member and I imagine Walter’s been steward here long enough that he qualifies, too. Mrs. Tichborne has worked even longer as housekeeper.”
Dora opened the door a scant inch. She peered into the gallery, let out a sigh of relief, and admitted the cousins. “Forgive me, do. I thought y
ou were Master Alex. Or Miss Nats. I was putting the kettle on.”
If Aunt Pet had suffered any ill effects from her confrontation with the Karamzins, she gave no sign. Her chair had been turned sideways so that it no longer faced the windows. A small table sat in front of her, and two other chairs had been drawn up. Judith and Renie sat down.
“Tired, are you?” Aunt Pet’s assessment was astute. “Claire and Charles probably hauled you all over the county. Hope you weren’t bored to tears.”
“Oh, no,” Judith insisted. “It was wonderful. We saw some really fabulous sights.”
“Ha!” Aunt Pet was watching Dora fuss with the tea things. The cousins were watching Dora to make sure she didn’t start a fire. “What’s so fascinating about a pile of rubble like Glastonbury? Now if it were all of a piece, that would be different. But no, Henry VIII had to wreck the place, the greedy old fool.” She craned her neck to see what the maid was doing. “Dora! You can’t make the kettle boil by staring at it! Bring those scones and the cucumber and fish-paste sandwiches so we can start nibbling.”
Dora obliged, fluttering to the table with a Royal Doulton plate that held a dozen finger sandwiches. The cousins were careful to try the cucumber first. The scones were delivered next, in a covered wicker basket.
“I talked Tichborne into making these,” Aunt Pet said, devouring one of the fish-paste concoctions. “Odd woman, that Hester. Can’t blame her in some ways. Still, a person can’t give in to tragedy. Might as well roll over and die.”
Judith discovered that the cucumber sandwich was delicious. The filling included tomato, creamed cheese, and a dash of basil. “You’re referring to Mrs. Tichborne’s daughter?”
Aunt Pet seemed to be studying her second sandwich. “Well—yes. Janet, her name was. Flighty creature. Not the least like her mother.”
“She disappeared?” Judith decided to dare eat the fish-paste. It was surprisingly tasty.
Aunt Pet was still avoiding eye contact with her guests. “That was the story at the time. Not that girls don’t do that when they’re young and headstrong. Foolish—so foolish. They ruin their lives.” The tea kettle whistled, and Aunt Pet nodded with satisfaction. “Let it steep properly,” she commanded Dora. “You tend to hurry the leaves along.”
“Mrs. Tichborne is certainly a fine cook,” Renie noted, gobbling finger sandwiches of both varieties. “What happened to Mr. Tichborne?” The question was idly phrased, for Renie was now slathering butter on a warm scone.
Aunt Pet wrinkled her faintly hooked nose. “He drank. Owned a pub, in fact, over in Taunton. Crude sort, probably beat Hester. Nobody mourned when he fell off a bridge and drowned. Years ago, of course. That was how we acquired Mrs. Tichborne. He’d mortaged the pub to the hilt, and she needed the post.”
Judith also tried a scone, with a dab of damson jam. “So she and Janet moved in?”
Aunt Pet nodded. “That they did. Janet was raised here. Sample the orange marmalade. Tichborne puts it up herself.”
Judith and Renie were more than willing. Despite a fine lunch at The Royal Oak in Ilminster, their excursion had made them hungry.
“What,” Judith inquired as Dora poured tea, “did Janet do? Run away?”
But Aunt Pet’s attention was fixed on her maid. “Mind that teapot, Dora. You’ll spill into the saucer.” She paused, waiting for Dora to pass the cups. “Where did you say your great-grandparents lived? Wiltshire?”
The cousins hadn’t said. “Essex,” Renie answered. “High Ongar. A great-great-great-grandfather was the curate there in the eighteen-thirties. Another great—not so far back as that—served in the Admiralty under Queen Victoria.”
“Ah.” The pieces of family history seemed to please Aunt Pet. “Good stock. Service to God and country. Delighted to have you as part of the family. Don’t think I’ll forget it when I finalize this new will.” The old lady winked broadly.
“But…” Judith began, taken aback. “Great-Grandfather was a Grover who married a—”
“Jackass,” Aunt Pet said amiably. “That was my own grandfather, the last of the Dunks. Drank, gambled, frittered away what was left of the family fortune. It took my father, Sir Henry Ravenscroft, to save this place. Cordelia, that was my mother. Cordelia Dunk-Ravenscroft. Beautiful woman, but no spine. She filled my brothers, Chauncey and Oakley, with too many pretty stories. Wandering knights and ladies a-pining. No wonder my father made me his heir. Or heiress. One has to be careful these days about nomenclature. Don’t know why. A fool’s a fool, regardless of gender. More tea?”
Renie offered her cup. “Sure, it’s good stuff. I’m invigorated.”
Aunt Pet nodded. “Tea’s the thing. You’ve seen the library? Used to be the formal dining room until about a hundred and fifty years ago.”
Claire hadn’t yet shown them all of the second floor, but Judith had noticed the library was opposite the master bedroom. When Judith confessed that she was a trained librarian, Aunt Pet seemed mildly impressed.
“You’ll appreciate the collection then,” she said. “Several first editions, mostly nineteenth century. Lot of trash, too. The younger generations bought these so-called modern novels. Nothing but sex and gloom. Most depressing. Oh, there are some French and Russian works, too. Genevieve and Viktor saw to that. Personally, I can’t read a word of Russian. Alphabet’s all queer and backwards.” Aunt Pet buttered another scone. Once again, the doctor’s instructions went unheeded. “Browse at your leisure. If Charles is working there, ignore him. Nobody else uses the library. You won’t catch Alex or Nats reading a book. Even smut’s too dull for their tastes.”
Judith’s expression was rueful. “It’s sad when young people don’t read. They miss so much.”
Aunt Pet snorted. “Those two don’t miss a trick. Opportunists, both of them. Think they can pull the wool over my eyes. More fools they!”
Judith assumed her most innocent look. “You mean—they’re schemers?”
“Swindlers is more like it.” Aunt Pet chewed her scone with vigor. “Not quite criminals. Alex hasn’t the brains to be a crook. And Nats is too clever to break the law. More scones?”
The cousins, however, were replete. Aunt Pet turned to summon Dora, but the maid was nowhere in sight.
“Slips in and out like a wraith,” Aunt Pet complained, picking up the silver bell from the nightstand between her chair and the elaborately hung bed. “Listens at keyholes, too. Good thing her bedroom is on the other side of my sitting room. Otherwise, she’d sit up all night, listening to me talk in my sleep.”
But Dora scurried in through a door next to a heavy oak armoire. Judith figured it was the bathroom. When Aunt Pet imperiously ordered the maid to take away the tea things, Judith pictured the long, winding turret stairs and offered to carry the items down to the kitchen.
“No need,” said Aunt Pet. “There’s a dumbwaiter. It comes out on the main floor by one of the back doors. Mrs. Tichborne will collect everything and take it to the kitchen. Now off with you. I’ve enjoyed myself, but I’m due for a nap. Can’t sleep at night for more than two hours at a time. Most vexing.”
Offering their thanks, the cousins started out through the sitting room. But Aunt Pet called after them:
“Ring up Arthur, if you please. Tell him not to come by this evening.” Her manner grew secretive, almost playful. “I’m not ready to see him yet. Sometimes it’s more interesting to keep people in suspense.”
Judith had stepped back into the bedchamber. “Would he be at work or at home on a Saturday afternoon?”
Aunt Pet was leaning heavily on the diminutive Dora. “At home, I should think. Don’t know his number. I won’t use a telephone. Never had one in my rooms. Nothing but a nuisance.” Still clinging to the maid, she dragged herself to the bed. As the cousins left the suite, they heard Dora’s high-pitched voice commiserating over her mistress’s aches and pains. Aunt Pet told the maid to belt up.
As predicted, the library was empty. Its size, not to mention its invent
ory, surpassed what Judith had imagined. Books lined the walls, requiring ladders to reach the top shelves. The chimneypiece, with its Portland stone, could have been part of the original craftsmanship. Certainly the heraldic stained-glass windows showed signs of great age as well as ethereal beauty.
The volumes were wonderful, too, from Austen to Zola. At last, Renie had to forcibly drag Judith away. It was after six o’clock, and while Aunt Pet would not be at dinner, the cousins still needed to change out of their sightseeing clothes.
The cocktail interval was subdued compared to the previous evening. The Karamzins had gone off to a party in Yeovil, and Walter Paget was nowhere to be seen. Judith had called Arthur Tinsley from the library. He hadn’t been at home, but a petulant female, who Judith assumed was the delicate Lona, promised to convey the message.
Dinner was also a more modest, as well as informal, affair. Charles monopolized the conversation, discussing his work, which seemed to consist of overseeing the Ravenscroft fortune.
“I started out as a clerk for Barclay’s Bank,” he explained. “The pater wanted me to go into the fishmonger business with him, but the stench put me off. A man needn’t reek of fish to prove he’s a man, I said, and how could the pater argue?”
With feigned modesty, Charles went on to relate how quickly he’d risen in The City. Basically, he loved money, but disliked banks. Or, at any rate, bankers. Managing investments was his forte. He had found himself more at home in a brokerage house. Consequently, upon his marriage to Claire twelve years earlier, Aunt Pet had asked—or commanded—him to take over the family’s financial affairs.