by Michelle Cox
Henrietta felt the crunch of the pea gravel underfoot as she made her way toward the gardens that lay straight ahead, just as Billings had said. She turned slowly around in a complete circle, trying to get her bearings, but she was confused as to exactly where she was. The kitchen gardens lay slightly to the left and were laid out in perfectly neat rows, made up almost entirely of vegetables and herbs, though there were some flowers as well. She walked along, surprised by the warmth of the day—the air inside the house seemed permanently cool—and headed for the brick wall she saw running along the back as well as the gate Billings had mentioned. No one seemed in sight, but as she got closer to the end, however, she saw what she assumed was one of the gardeners bent over some early peas, attempting to tie them up. He looked up briefly and, surprised to see her, rose slowly, unabashedly sizing her up as he did so. Henrietta, however, was used to men looking at her and ignored it.
“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked, a permanent sort of sneer on his face. He was tall and thin with greasy blond hair that hung down, partially concealed one eye. His nose and mouth protruded unnaturally, giving him the appearance of a tall rodent. His dull gray eyes seemed to pierce her.
“I’m looking for the path by the lake. Is it this way?” she said, pointing beyond the gate she already had her hand on.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said curtly and bent back over the peas.
“Thank you,” Henrietta said deliberately, unsure of what else to say. The man continued working as if she were no longer there, so Henrietta pushed through the gate, a quiet screech escaping from it as she did so, and let it bang behind her. The gardener did not look up at the sound, and Henrietta, deciding not to say anything more to him, continued on her way down the immaculately terraced lawn to where Lake Michigan lay gloriously before her.
At the end of the lawn proper there was a set of stone steps leading down to the beach, which boasted the small dock and boathouse that had been described to her. She made her way toward them, the formal landscaping of the house giving way now to a more wild, irregular array of beach grasses and even a couple of scrub pines. The sheer beauty and peacefulness of it overwhelmed Henrietta, and she suddenly wished someone could see it with her. Her thoughts went immediately to Clive, but he had seen it all before, hadn’t he? she realized with a certain wistfulness. This was nothing new to him. Then Elsie, perhaps. Elsie would love it here! But she didn’t want to think about Elsie or Jimmy or any of them just now and tried to push them to the back of her mind as she continued on toward the narrow beach. She was too old to be homesick, she told herself, but it was strange being away from them.
She paused for a moment to look out over the lake and let the cool wind whip round her face before she forced herself to move again, stepping down onto the small dock where a boat was tied up with the oars tucked neatly inside. In some ways, it felt good to be alone—it was a luxury she very rarely enjoyed—but she felt a little apprehensive, too, though of what she wasn’t sure. She took a deep breath, wondering if she deserved to be here at Highbury, even if she deserved this moment in this solitary place when she knew Ma and Elsie were toiling away back in the noisy, crowded city. She hoped Ma had taken the money. Suddenly she had an overwhelming longing, then, for Clive to be here and hoped she deserved him, too.
Rousing herself from her thoughts, she pulled herself away from the beauty of the view before her and retreated. She stepped back off the dock and walked around the boathouse, peering through one of the cloudy windows. She couldn’t see much, however, just a variety of what looked like sail boats. Behind the boathouse she could see the beginnings of a path that ran along the sandy beach and wound its way between the scrub trees that were growing haphazardly along the shore. Henrietta decided to follow it, though she wasn’t really wearing the right shoes, but both her curiosity and her unwillingness to go back to the house propelled her forward. She was not normally one for nature, but she found the path very peaceful as it wound through birch trees and alongside an occasional willow.
Eventually a less-worn path opened up to the left, leading up a slight incline, while the main path seemed to continue along the lake. Curious as to where this side path to the left would lead, and thinking it was possibly a route leading back to the house from a different direction, she decided to follow it for a few steps to see what she could see. The ground was less sandy here and more solid as she climbed the little hill. The trees neighboring the path grew thicker, and she could see only patches of the lake now, though she could still hear it. She was beginning to wonder if she should perhaps turn back when she saw a tiny structure just ahead, more like a cottage than a proper house. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and as she drew nearer, she could see washing hanging out on the lines, so it was obviously inhabited. She was about to turn around and go back when she saw an old woman come out of the house, who, upon seeing her, raised a dishtowel in greeting, shouting, “Is tha’ you, Daphne?”
Henrietta saw no choice but to approach the woman and introduce herself. Before she could speak, however, the woman began again. “Oo, Daphne! You’ll never guess wha’s ’appened!” Henrietta thought she detected some sort of foreign accent. Scottish maybe? The woman was hobbling toward her now.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Henrietta said, confused. “But, I’m not . . . Daphne. I’m Henrietta. Henrietta Von Harmon.”
The woman’s face remained a blank.
“I’m staying with the Howards,” Henrietta said, gesturing awkwardly back toward the house, the roof of which was just visible over the trees.
The woman peered closely at her, though her eyes were cloudy, which might explain her mistaking her for this Daphne person. She obviously couldn’t see very well.
“Ach! Yer na Daphne!” the woman finally exclaimed.
“No, I’m not Daphne,” Henrietta repeated slowly. “I’m Henrietta.”
The two stood looking at each other, Henrietta feeling suddenly very self-conscious while the old woman tried to place her. Finally she shook her head, as if giving up.
“Well, mebbe ya could ’elp me anyway, like,” the woman said, laying her hand on Henrietta’s arm and looking around at the ground fretfully. “Please,” she said desperately. “I’ve lost me ring! Me eyes ain wha’ they once were. ’Tis gone, me ring is, an I jis’ knows ’e took it!”
Henrietta considered the bent figure before her dressed in a long old-fashioned gown with old black boots and an apron tied round her plump middle. Her face was a mask of wrinkles and her hair, beneath a babushka of sorts, was white and wispy. She very much resembled what Henrietta imagined a gypsy to look like. The woman’s murky eyes peered up at her.
“You’ve lost your ring, you say?” Henrietta asked kindly, feeling sorry for her and not knowing what else to say. A missing ring could be anywhere. She had probably just misplaced it, Henrietta surmised.
“Please ’elp me look, won’ ya?” the old woman begged. “I were ’opin’ ya were Daphne, but I don’ see ’er,” the woman said, gazing down the path as if expecting someone to appear any minute.
Henrietta looked reactively down the path and then back up toward the house. No one, of course, was in sight. “Are you expecting her?”
“Ach, Daphne will be along pretta soon, though ya never kin tell wit ’er.”
Henrietta remained silent, not knowing what else to say.
“You’ll coom in an wait, won’ ya?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be back at the house for lunch in a bit,” Henrietta said tentatively.
The woman’s face fell, and she looked as though she were about to cry.
“But I guess I could come in for just a little while, though,” Henrietta acquiesced slowly.
“Oo, bless ya!” the woman said, taking her by the arm, then, and leading her back, her limp obvious now, toward the cottage. “I’m in a righ’ state, I am. Kinna fine it nowheres. I jis’ knows it were ’im. Greedy fingers, is wha’ ’e is . . .” She continued to mumble these and similar
phrases over and over as Henrietta followed her, causing her to wonder who “he” was and if the old woman was even in her right mind.
The cottage when they reached it was low and small with a cedar shake roof and ivy almost completely covering it, as if the wood beyond were trying to annex it and claim it for itself. Henrietta paused for a moment to regard the structure more closely, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. It seemed like something out of a fairy tale, and it struck her, just for a moment, that if that were true, she was inadvertently playing the part of the distressed damsel, Gretel or Red Riding Hood perhaps. She smiled to herself at the thought of it.
The old woman turned now to see why she had stopped.
“I’m coming!” Henrietta called to her. She gave Highbury one last hesitant look before she hurried the rest of the way, trying to shake off her wild imaginings, and bent, cautiously, to follow the hunched old woman through the tiny front door.
Chapter 3
Henrietta blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior of the cottage and looked curiously around her, relieved that, upon first impression anyway, the interior did not resemble a witch’s hovel, an image she admitted to having momentarily conjured up, but rather a quaint, cozy dwelling. A fire was burning in a big stone fireplace that seemed, judging from the pot hanging above it, to be used for some of the woman’s cooking, though an old-fashioned wood-burning stove sat in the corner as well. Along one wall was a rustic hutch of sorts that held plates and mugs and a wide variety of pottery and crocks. There were two windows, one above the copper sink and a larger one on the wall opposite by the door, both framed in gingham curtains that blew gently in the breeze coming in off the lake. A small wooden table and chairs sat in front of the fire, atop what looked like a hand-braided rug. At the sight of the kerosene lamp on the table, Henrietta looked around and noted that there didn’t seem to be any electricity. It felt strange to go from such luxury but a few moments ago to something that was so rustic and seemed almost of another era.
“This is lovely,” Henrietta said, looking around and inhaling the comforting scent of the wood crackling in the fireplace. The woman seemed not to hear her, but stood near the stove, wringing her hands. “Do you live here alone?” Henrietta asked a bit louder.
“Wha’? Alone? Aye, alone, tha’ I am,” she said, still wringing her hands absently. “’cepting Daphne, tha’ is.”
“Who is Daphne?” Henrietta asked with strained politeness.
“Why, Daphne’s me daughta’,” the woman answered incredulously. “She comes an goes, she does.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” Henrietta wasn’t sure how to proceed. “So, what does this ring look like?”
“Oo, aye,” the woman exclaimed as if suddenly remembering why they were standing there. She took up her dishcloth and began wringing that now in place of her hands and gazed around the cottage with her nearly sightless eyes, as if the ring might suddenly appear. “’Tis a gold ring, it is, wit a big pearl in the middle of it, an next ta it is loads a tiny purple stones,” she said, holding up her thumb and forefinger to show its size. “Don’ rightly knows the name a the purple ones. But it’s gone, it is.”
“Well . . . where did you last see it? Can you remember?” Henrietta asked patiently, still trying in her mind to decide if it might not be best to leave the matter to Daphne.
“Ach. It were where it always is. ’Ere, I’ll show ya, like.” She hobbled past Henrietta toward the room at the back.
Henrietta followed her into what appeared to be the woman’s bedroom. It held only a small bed covered with a quilt that looked like it had been made from a variety of material scraps, a little stool by the bed whose purpose seemed to be that of a table, and a tall dresser upon which Henrietta noticed a single photograph in a cheap burnished frame, set atop a small dresser scarf stitched with neat embroidery. The woman shuffled toward the dresser and bent to open the bottom drawer. While she did so, Henrietta stole a glance at the photo in the frame. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was of the old woman, apparently taken of her as a young mother, holding a baby. A man, presumably her husband, was standing next to them.
“Is that Daphne?” Henrietta asked.
At the sound of Daphne’s name, the old woman stood up straight, looking around eagerly as if Daphne had appeared and seemed all the more disappointed when she saw that it was merely the photograph to which Henrietta was referring. The woman looked at it as if to confirm her answer. “Aye, tha’s Daphne,” she said blankly. “Tha’s ’er as a wee bairn,” she added and went back to rummaging through the drawer. A moment later, she pulled out a tiny box covered in faded navy blue felt. Her hands shook slightly as she held it out to Henrietta.
Henrietta took it and saw upon opening it that it was indeed empty. The woman offered no further explanation, so Henrietta felt obliged to continue the inquiry herself. “So this is where you last saw it? You’re sure?”
“Aye. Course I am.”
“You didn’t maybe take it out?” Henrietta asked. “Wear it or show someone, maybe?”
“Ach, noo! Never! Noo . . . ’e took it, I knows it fer certain.”
Henrietta snapped the lid back shut, ignoring the strange accusation at least for the moment.
“Perhaps it fell out,” Henrietta suggested tentatively. “Should I look around?” she offered.
“Oo, aye . . . ifin ya don’ mind. I’d be ever sa grateful. I don’ mind fer meself, like, but I’m sa afeared wha’ Daphne migh’ say. Migh’ think I weren’ mindin’ it sa well, ya see.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,” Henrietta said, as she began to sift through the contents of the drawer, which seemed to consist mainly of stockings, undergarments, and old-fashioned petticoats. When she was satisfied that it was not there, Henrietta straightened up and opened the top drawer, and then the second and the third, not finding it anywhere. Determined, now, she got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed and the dresser but found nothing but a lot of dust and cobwebs. The cottage as a whole seemed clean and tidy enough, but it was obvious that the woman’s poor eyesight prevented her from getting into the nooks and crannies. Henrietta brushed off her hands as she stood up, surveying the room one more time. “Hmmm . . . I don’t see it,” she said finally.
“Told ya!” the woman said, wringing the towel again.
“Maybe it’s out here somewhere,” Henrietta said, going back into the main room.
“Wouldn’ be out dare!” the woman said desperately.
“Well, mind if I have a little look?”
“Course ya kin, luv. Ach, why did ’e go an do it?” she said to no one in particular and began pacing now.
Henrietta looked on the shelves of the hutch and in all of the little cupboards, which mostly held jars of canned vegetables and fruits, linens, candles, a ball of twine, a stack of used envelopes with nothing apparently in them, and various antiquated utensils. Henrietta got down on the floor again to look, but to no avail. Slowly she stood up and looked around again, her hands on her hips. “Well, you’re right. I can’t find it, either.”
“Oo, Lord!” the old woman exclaimed. “Wha’ am I gonna do?”
The woman seemed to be working herself up more and more, and Henrietta wasn’t sure what to do next, especially as she didn’t even know who this woman was. Surely living so close to the Howards, she must be known to them. She was reluctant to stay, as she felt she could do no more in what was obviously some sort of innocent mixup, but she felt she couldn’t just leave this poor woman in such a state of despair. She glanced at the clock ticking on the stone mantelpiece. It was just eleven o’clock, so she still had a bit of time before luncheon, as Mrs. Howard called it.
“Tell you what,” Henrietta said calmly. “Why don’t you make us some tea, and you can tell me all about it. We’ll try to figure it out together,” Henrietta tried to say soothingly.
“Wha’?” the woman said as if coming out of a daze. “’Tis tea ya wan’? Aye,
a cup a tea. Tha’s it. Jis’ the thing.” She turned toward the stove to put the kettle on.
“Do you need any help?” Henrietta asked, looking around again.
“Get two plates off the ’utch,” she said, “an two cups. That’s it, aye,” she said as Henrietta, glad to be allowed to do something, brought them to the table. The old woman carried a plate covered with another dishtowel to the table and pulled it back to reveal what looked like little cakes.
“These is me raspberry buns. Jis’ made ’em fer when Daphne comes, ya see. ’Ere! Take one! Noo, please!” she exclaimed when Henrietta tried to desist.
“Are you sure?” Henrietta asked, not wanting to rob Daphne of her treat.
“Aye. Course I am! I kin always make more, like. Dare’s loads a raspberries out back. Kinna pick ’em all, tha’s ’ow many dare is. ’Elp yerself if yer ever in a mind ta do it,” she said, nodding toward what Henrietta assumed was the back of the cottage. “Might take some up ta the big hoose a little later, I migh’.”
“Do you mean to the Howards? I could take them if you like. I’m staying there,” Henrietta repeated.
“Are ya now?” the woman said, limping over with the kettle and pouring hot water into what looked to be a very old teapot. “Ya moost be a friend a Miss Julia’s, then,” she said sitting down heavily. “Didna she come wit ya?” she asked, looking toward the door.
Henrietta wasn’t sure how to answer this. Clive had told her that his older sister was married and living nearby in Glencoe, but the old woman seemed not to remember this. She wondered who this woman was and how she fit into the Howard family. Perhaps she was a former servant, allowed to stay on in this strange cottage, which appeared to be on their property.
“No, I believe Julia lives in Glencoe now,” Henrietta suggested slowly.
“Ach, sa she does! I firget sometimes . . .” The woman seemed to think hard. “She’s a Cunningham now, ain’ she? Aye, tha’s it!” she said and stood up to pour out the tea. “Who are ya, then?”