by Andre Norton
He began to move away toward the brick path that ran round the house to the front and Fredericka said quickly, “There was a man I—er—well, there was someone called Colonel at the junction and I just wondered if it could have been this Mr. Sutton.”
“No Ma’am.” Chris turned back. The smile had gone at last, and he regarded Fredericka solemnly. “Perhaps it could likely have been Colonel Mohun. He teaches in the college and everyone calls him Colonel ’round here.”
Fredericka, for the third time that day, felt herself blushing. She wished now that she hadn’t spoken. If only Chris would stop looking at her and go away.
“The Colonel’s a good man,” Chris said slowly, and something in the way he emphasized the word “good” made Fredericka look up quickly. Yes, it was as if he had said, “Those others, those Suttons, are a bad lot.”
“Thanks, Chris. I’ll be here tonight, probably working in the shop, so you can bring the trunk any time.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Fredericka watched the retreating back and wished she hadn’t talked so much. As the sound of Chris’s footsteps died away, the garden seemed unnaturally silent. She shivered. Was it a sudden cool breeze, or was it something else—a coldness and loneliness inside herself? Who was that illustrator who made trees into witches and ogres? Rackham. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder—was that also true of—evil? Why was she suddenly so disenchanted? She shivered again and got up to walk indoors slowly. She must apply her own mental discipline to such ridiculous imaginings.
Chapter 2
Fredericka woke herself with a loud sneeze and turned over to look at the clock on the table by her bed.
Eight. Later than usual—much. But there had been the thunderstorm in the middle of the night and she had lain awake for a long time afterwards. She opened her eyes wide and stared at the unfamiliar yellow room.
She sneezed again, sat up, and was sure that she had started a cold. Her eyes ached and her throat felt like sandpaper.
As she dressed slowly, stopping at intervals to reach for a paper handkerchief, she was aware of a curious apprehension that had nothing to do with her cold and nothing to do with being alone in a strange house. Suddenly she sneezed again.
“Sneeze on Sunday, sneeze for—” What was the old rhyme? She finished dressing hurriedly and then looked out the window at the back of the room, over the sloping tin roof of the porch to the patch of lawn and the tangle of bushes beyond. She must explore that jungle later if the sun came out. But not now. The dark leaves hung heavy and dank from their night’s wetting and even the lawn was steaming after the heat of yesterday.
Why didn’t she stop staring out of the window? Why didn’t she go down and put on the coffee and make an effort to throw off this unreasonable depression? Why?
Suddenly she stiffened where she stood. Yes, the wet bushes were moving and there was no hint of wind to move them. As she stared a white face appeared, and then, slowly and cautiously, the body attached to it. A young girl in a checked gingham dress. Fredericka relaxed. But why should this girl approach so stealthily through the wet bushes as though she did not want to be seen. Why, for that matter, did she come at all, unasked?
Fredericka stuffed her apron pocket with tissues and hurried downstairs to the back door, which she threw open suddenly as a relief to her annoyance. Her visitor was now standing in full view.
“Yes?” Fredericka said coldly.
“Oh,” said the girl, looking up. “You must be Fredericka Wing.”
“I am. And who, if I may ask, are you?” In spite of herself, Fredericka was annoyed at the use of her first name by the stranger, and her annoyance was not relieved by the sight of the unprepossessing girl who stared back at her. Young, certainly not more than sixteen, sullen, untidy, her too-full face blotched with patches of crimson acne.
“I’m Margie Hartwell.” The girl paused as if this explanation should be enough for anyone, and then she added reluctantly and as if compelled by Fredericka’s evident hostility, “I’ve come for some things Mom wanted from the storeroom.”
Fredericka was about to forbid her to enter the house when she realized that she was behaving stupidly simply because she did not like the girl and her unannounced arrival. After all, Miss Hartwell had spoken of this child as her niece. With an effort, Fredericka managed to say nothing, but she turned away abruptly toward the kitchen and the more cheerful thought of coffee.
Margie banged through the screen door and Fredericka could hear her heavy footsteps go up the stairs and into the room over the office which Philippine had called the personal storeroom and which she had discovered to be full of family possessions.
This kind of behaviour might be all right for South Sutton, but it was not going to be all right for Fredericka Wing.
By the time Margie returned, Fredericka was finishing her breakfast. The girl stood in the doorway, looking hungry, but Fredericka did not ask her in.
“I wish,” she said stiffly, “that another time you would let me know when you want to come into the house. I live here now, you know.”
“But Auntie said—”
Fredericka cut her short. “It doesn’t matter what Miss Hartwell said. I’m in charge here now and I don’t like people banging in and out unasked.”
The girl stared at her and the blotches on her face turned an angry red, but she said nothing. After a moment, she turned and went out the back door, slamming it deliberately behind her.
And that’s that, Fredericka thought. Now, just because I’m tired and have a cold and was startled, I’ve had to antagonize that miserable child. She got up and went to the sink to wash the dishes. Outside, the hammock looked soggy and bedraggled. Should she have covered it with something? Oh, blast it, blast everything. If this place wasn’t so full of lunatics, she’d have started off on the right foot. As it was…
But as the morning wore on, and Fredericka suffered no further disturbance, she began to feel better. Systematically checking stock, she found it very much to her own taste. Miss Hartwell might be scatterbrained but she certainly knew books.
Her find of the morning was in the small secondhand books section in the room opposite the office—a shelf of the long out-of-print novels of Mary J. Holmes and several other Victorian women writers that Fredericka had been trying to track down for months. Now, if only she wasn’t too busy getting settled, she could get to work on her own reading and writing almost immediately. This thought cheered her so much that, somewhat to her own surprise, she began to sing through her short repertoire of hymns. The incipient cold did not help them, but Fredericka had forgotten that she had ever thought of a cold, or been depressed. The Hartwell Bookshop had suddenly become paradise on earth.
She worked through the three rooms carefully and ended up in the Lending Library which she found in good order, as were the papers neatly stacked on the office desk. There was also a pile of books with a note in Miss Hartwell’s large scrawl that was now all too familiar to the bookshop’s new manager:
These are for P. Mohun. Ordered ages ago. He’ll want them sooner than at once. Margie can take a note over to the college for him, or he’ll be in.
Fredericka looked through the titles with quickened interest. It seemed that Peter Mohun—Colonel Peter Mohun—bought books on American military history before the Civil War—Indians and frontier fighting. Was that the subject he taught in the college then?
There were two other books, each with a note on top. Kathleen Winsor from the lending library marked with the name “Catherine Clay” and Carl Van Doren’s Life of Franklin, marked “Roger Sutton.”
Well, Fredericka thought, that ought to tell me something about the son and daughter of the first family of South Sutton. And, also, of course, a little more about this interesting man, Colonel Peter Mohun.
A hesitant ray of sunlight flashed across the desk and as quickly retreated. Fredericka got up and went to the window. Yes, patches of blue sky. Perhaps it would be sensible to go out. What had Phil
ippine Sutton said about the inn? Good food. A look at the kitchen clock showed Fredericka that it was already late for lunch and one should certainly feed a cold but not make the effort of cooking for it. She hurried upstairs to change her clothes to the tune of “Abide With Me.”
Fredericka found the Coach and Horses as attractive as Philippine had promised. It was certainly early nineteenth century, a colonial white wooden house with brick ends and wide chimneys, and it had been well preserved. The doorway with its fanlight and side windows was unspoilt, or perfectly restored. The grass that edged the curved driveway was neatly cut and the beds bright with flowers.
Fredericka found the door ajar and went in hesitantly. To her surprise, she stepped directly into a comfortable living room with large chintz-covered chairs and an air of being used and homelike. A log fire was burning in the great fireplace directly opposite the door and Sunday papers lay in untidy patches on the scattered tables and chairs.
Fredericka saw at once that the room was empty and that the clock on the mantelpiece said ten minutes past one. She walked across to the fire and stretched out her hands. How odd to be grateful for this warmth after yesterday’s midsummer heat. She stared at the flames absently and then became aware that someone had come quietly into the room behind her. She turned quickly and found herself staring into the face of a woman. The eyes that regarded Fredericka were violet-gray and beautiful, but cold as a foggy winter day. And then the woman spoke and the lovely colourless mask of her face was suddenly creased and spoilt by age and petulance.
“You must be Miss Wing. Miss Hartwell said to be on the lookout for you.” She extended a white hand which Fredericka took with instinctive reluctance. “I am Mrs. Clay—Catherine Sutton Clay.” She pronounced the middle name with obvious pleasure.
“Oh, yes,” Fredericka murmured. So this was the Sutton daughter who had been married and divorced, if that was what Chris meant by saying that she was not married just at present! The limp hand in her own had unexpected strength. And then, remembering her manners, Fredericka added: “How do you do?”
“Not too well, thanks,” Catherine answered unexpectedly. “I’ve left New York too long and now the slow decay of South Sutton has set in. I don’t suppose you’ve felt it yet. But you will…”
Fredericka could think of nothing to say and the woman shrugged impatiently. “You’d better get lunch if that’s what you came for. Chicken on Sunday and the longer you wait, the less there is of it!” Then she muttered under her breath; “If friend James doesn’t come soon we’ll get cold ham.” She sank down into a chair and waved an expressive hand toward the dining room.
I mustn’t dislike any of these people, Fredericka thought miserably as she muttered a word of thanks and moved toward the sound of rattling plates and cutlery that she could hear through the door at the far end of the room. But I don’t like her, and I have a hunch that I never will, customer or no customer.
The dining room seemed to Fredericka’s overwrought nerves to be crammed with people who all looked up to stare at the newcomer as she stood hesitant in the doorway. But when the hostess had greeted her pleasantly and shown her to a quiet corner of the room, she looked around with some surprise to discover that, in fact, very few of the tables were taken. The first person she saw was Colonel Mohun who, as yesterday, looked directly at her with intent appraising eyes. And then when she stared back, as though hypnotized, he smiled, and the severity vanished from his face. Fredericka also smiled and then looked down at the menu in confusion, as she felt her cheeks flame with sudden telltale colour. The typed card was not worth serious attention since there was no question of choice, but it gave Fredericka a chance to recover and, after a moment, she was able to look around the room, if not in the direction of the distracting Colonel Mohun.
There were several large tables round which sat husbands, wives and children who looked as though they might be professors’ families. They had an unmistakable “Sunday treat after church” look about them. Fredericka now realized that the noise which had greeted her entrance came from one of these tables, where a young man of about two in a high chair was producing tom-tom beats of spoon against bowl, and bowl against cup, in a manner that he found most satisfying.
“All he needs is a brass band in support,” a deep voice said, and Fredericka looked up to see Colonel Mohun standing over her. “Please forgive me for introducing myself in this informal way but we are informal about introductions around here and, of course, having been primed by dear Lucy Hartwell, I had a good idea who you were when I first saw you yesterday at the Junction. I want to ask about some books I’ve ordered but perhaps I ought not to trouble you now.”
Fredericka mumbled a few words about the books which she hoped sounded adequate, but instead of moving away, this strange man said quietly: “I was just finishing my coffee. Would you mind if I joined you for a few moments? Lucy asked me particularly to give you a welcome.”
Fredericka now became acutely aware that the small boy’s tom-tom had stopped beating and she could imagine that not only his, but every other pair of eyes was regarding them both with interest. She stared stupidly at her plate and could not bring herself to look up. Then she heard herself say in what seemed a very loud voice: “Of course. Please do.”
“We’re a small town in every sense,” her visitor went on easily, when he had rejoined her with his cup of coffee. “I mean, there aren’t enough of us to begin with. We gossip; we regard any new arrival with excitement and—yes, I admit it—suspicion; we’re clannish; but on the whole we mean well.”
Fredericka felt warmed by the solicitousness of his words and the friendly sound of his quiet ordinary voice and, all at once, she found her shyness gone and heard herself speak to this stranger as though he were a childhood friend. “I’m sorry if I’ve given the impression of unfriendliness to any of you,” she said, thinking guiltily of her morning encounter with Margie. “It’s all a little bewildering after New York—or perhaps bewildering isn’t the right word. ‘Frightening’ is more like it. For some reason you’re all larger than life-size, as though I were seeing you through a magnifying glass.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Sudden changes have all the horror of nightmare, but you’ll be all right when you get to feel as though you were one of us. And you will, much sooner than you think. Let’s see what I can do to help. I’m Peter Mohun…”
“Yes, I know.”
“Good. I teach in Sutton College—an extra-special course for these extra-special summer students.” He looked around the room and smiled again. “You know I can’t get used to teaching married men with wives and kids all over the campus—even if I am twice their age.”
“You mean these are students? I thought they must be professors only they looked too young.” She paused for a moment and then asked: “What is so special about what you teach?” She was relieved to see that her dinner was arriving without any fuss. The typed menu was, indeed, only a state of fact.
“Didn’t Miss Hartwell tell you about the college?”
“Well, no. We had a brisk exchange of letters and then she departed at the very moment I got here. Miss Sutton did tell me a little when I arrived yesterday—but not much.”
“Just like Lucy. Well, I’ll be Guide to Ancient Monuments, and fill in the details Philippine may have missed. Sutton College was founded in 1820 by Lucius Edward Sutton in memory of his son who was killed in the war of 1812. This son, James Thayer Sutton, had been travelling to a diplomatic post on a blockade runner which was sunk by the British. For this reason the old man, ancestor of the husband of our own Mrs. Sutton who still lives at the Farm, the family place—what was I saying—oh, yes, the original old man founded Sutton College to train men for the Consular and Diplomatic Service of the U.S.A. The students are sifted carefully and are apt to be older than the usual run of college men, hence the families, and they are apt not to be poor since most men who go into this branch of the service need cash in support of salary.”
“Oh, yes, that was in 1814. As you may have noticed we have some fine specimens of what I believe the experts call Gothic Victorian architecture. Your new home is a good example. And the college is a copy of Magdalen College, Oxford—even to a made-to-order stream. I find it all very soothing.”
Colonel Mohun seemed in no hurry to leave, and, after a moment of stirring his empty coffee cup absently, he signalled the waitress to refill it. Fredericka looked puzzled. “You teach—er—diplomacy then?”
“I think that would be a tall order. No. I don’t really belong in the original scheme of things. In 1941 the college added a new department—unfortunately housed in prefab huts, still it could be worse—this is called, grandly, The Department of Military Government, and is partly financed by the government. In this department we take only college graduates. They’re our prize specimens.”
“And you teach?” Fredericka persisted.
“I?” The colonel frowned. “Oh, just a vague course in Military Intelligence.” He saw that Fredericka was ready with another question and he went on hurriedly, “I’d much rather spend all my time with the Indians—fighting the nice simple wars in the good old days of border strife before the Civil War.”
“Oh, yes, those books you wanted…” Fredericka said suddenly.
He finished his coffee quickly and stood up. “May I drop by for them later this afternoon? I’m acutely conscious that you’ve heard all about us—or rather me—and I’ve heard nothing about you.”
“I was eating.” Fredericka smiled. “And I’m too New England to talk at the same time. Yes, please do come in. A bookshop is a soulless place without people, especially on a cold, wet Sunday—” She stopped and sneezed suddenly. Searching her pockets for a handkerchief she looked up at him to say: “I don’t suppose you know the rest of that silly rhyme. It’s been teasing me all morning—you know, ‘Sneeze on Sunday…’”