by Lisa Doan
Henry thought she seemed as disappointed as ever that Sir Richard didn’t see that he and the duchess went together like silverware.
“One can’t help feelin’ sorry over it,” she said.
Sir Richard pretended he didn’t hear her.
After she retired, Henry leaned over and said in a low voice, “Do you think Mary will stay in the forest?”
Sir Richard waved a fried oyster on his fork. “No doubt, my boy. If you were a Theraphosa nigrum lapis creeping around the Amazon jungle and been suddenly swept up, put on a boat to England, dropped off at a manor house, called Mary, Queen of Scots, and expected to turn yellow, only to find that you were now hundreds of times bigger, then made an unsuccessful run at some cucumber sandwiches and been driven off by torches, wouldn’t you stay in the forest? The more pertinent question is what the duchess will say, and that will depend a great deal on what she actually saw. Thank heaven that awful Snidefellow wasn’t about. There’s nothing that man likes more than stirring up trouble.”
Henry had only seen Mr. Snidefellow once, when he and Sir Richard had gone to the village to pick up supplies for Mrs. Splunket. Sir Richard had met Snidefellow on the road and had later told Henry that Snidefellow was a councilman. Fifty years before, tenant farmers across England had united, surrounding their landowners’ estates, waving pitchforks and demanding better terms. The nobility had been terrified and the crown had speedily created the role of councilmen—men appointed by local nobles—to see that there was no repetition of what was later called The Great Pitchfork Rebellion. Since that time, the councilmen had expanded their role and now monitored both secular and religious activities and had broad power to arrest and prosecute as they saw fit. London had been full of them and Henry had been careful to stay out of their way. He had heard that the men had quotas of people to be delivered to the workhouse, as it was their responsibility to keep beggars off the streets. They preferred children because children were easier to subdue.
That day they had come upon the councilman on the road, he had bowed stiffly and said, “Sir Richard, shall we ever have the pleasure of seeing you at a church service one of these fine mornings?”
Sir Richard had been distracted and said, “No, my good fellow, not today, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Mr. Snidefellow had raised a thin and scraggly brow and said, “Today is Tuesday. Church services occur on Sunday. Every Sunday. It’s somewhat of a tradition.”
Now, Henry said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Snidefellow doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would approve of a giant tarantula.”
Sir Richard nodded and raised his glass. “Here’s to clever companions who grab torches in the nick of time. The boy saves the night and knight. Get it? Save the night, meaning this evening, and save the knight, meaning me?”
Henry flushed and clinked glasses with Sir Richard. He had always promised himself that if he could get any real work, he would do it better than anybody would expect. So far, he had mainly spent his time cheering up his employer. Now, he felt like he had really done something to help Sir Richard.
“Sir,” Henry said, thinking this might be a good time to ask something he had wondered about since he had arrived at the manor, “how did you become a knight?”
Sir Richard leaned back and tented his fingers. “Ah, I used to flatter myself that it was my cleverness that did it. But considering my run of failed experiments, I’m beginning to believe it was only dumb luck.”
Henry stayed silent.
“Six years ago,” Sir Richard continued, “I was in my study at Oxford. Out of sheer boredom, I twisted a thin piece of metal between my fingers and stared at the heap of parchments I was supposed to be reading. Then it occurred to me that I could twist the metal into a particular shape to hold all those parchments together. It wouldn’t help me read them any faster, but at least the pile would be neat. And so, the parchment clip was born. I was hailed as a great inventor and knighted. I’ve been trying to invent something else ever since.”
“Well,” Henry said, “you invented a giant tarantula.”
“True, but I don’t know how I did it and, in any case, the real goal is to invent something that benefits mankind and does not require being chased into a forest with a torch.”
Henry lay in his bed, mulling over what Sir Richard had said about Mary staying in the Queen’s Forest. It made sense. There was plenty of game in the woods, so she would not have to come out because she was hungry. As long as she didn’t stumble out of the woods in front of anybody, she should not cause any problems. Could she be counted on to do that, though? After all, she was Mary, Queen of Scots—reckless, daring, and adventurous.
He rolled over and stared at the leaded glass windows that kept the damp outside. It was pleasant to consider what the weather might be out of doors, now that he no longer had to live in it. Henry had spent months sleeping in London doorways, shaking in the cold and swatting flies in the heat. The nights were terrible, but sometimes the days were less so. If it were warm, Henry would make his way down to the harbor, where the breeze off the water was cool, and watch the ships sail in. It always struck him that the boats were attached to nothing, until the crew dropped a mighty anchor. That’s what he felt he had done at the manor. Dropped his anchor.
The smoldering embers in the bed warmer sent heat through Henry’s toes. As he stretched them out, he got that familiar sinking feeling. No matter how good anything got, there were his toes to think about. All six of them on both feet. His mother had told him they were the devil’s work. She said he would get hanged if anybody saw them.
Henry pulled the blanket up to his chin. He had to stop thinking about his toes. Nobody ever wanted to look at another person’s feet anyway.
CHAPTER FOUR
A pounding on the front doors woke Henry. He staggered out of bed. Sir Richard did not employ a footman; it was Henry’s job to answer the door to callers. They hadn’t had any callers since he arrived, so he had not done it before. He buttoned up his waistcoat and ran down the stairs.
The councilman, Mr. Snidefellow, stood tapping his cane on the stone steps. Henry thought he was a “too” sort of person. Too tall, too thin, too bony, too pinched in the face, and too scowling.
“Good morning, Mr. Snidefellow,” Henry said.
Mr. Snidefellow looked down his too long and too thin nose.
There was something Henry was supposed to say to everyone who arrived at the manor, except if it were the duchess, who was to be shown in immediately if she did them the compliment of coming to call. She had not done so since Henry had arrived, but he had practiced the manner in which he would politely show her to her special chair and then run as fast as he could to tell Sir Richard and then fly to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Splunket to make tea. It was all to go off smooth and quick and he was always at the ready for the moment when she would arrive. He was less ready for anybody else and needed to think what Sir Richard had directed him to say.
It finally came to him. “Unfortunately,” Henry said, “Sir Richard is engaged. Would you like to leave your card?”
Mr. Snidefellow rapped his cane on the top step. “Certainly not. Show me in. I will see Sir Richard this instant.”
Sir Richard had not told Henry what to do if a caller demanded to see him that instant. And worse, it was Mr. Snidefellow. Henry was certain Sir Richard did not want to see Snidefellow at any instant.
“Sir, I’m not sure I can—”
“Show me in, boy. I’m a busy man.”
Henry knew Sir Richard wouldn’t like it, but how was he to refuse? He did not dare cross a councilman.
“Well?” Snidefellow said. “As you appear not to know what to do next I shall tell you, direct me to the drawing room.”
“There, sir,” Henry said, pointing to the front room that was meant for visitors.
Mr. Snidefellow narrowed his eyes at Henry, then he strode into the caller’s drawing room.
Henry thought he had probably not made a very good impr
ession, as he had forgotten that he was meant to lead a caller into the room, not point at it and follow behind. He would have to be more careful next time.
Mr. Snidefellow perched himself on the yellow brocade upholstered chair. The very chair that Sir Richard had told Henry about. He had no choice but to say something.
“Excuse me, sir,” Henry said. “I only mention this because I’ve been given strict instructions about it. That chair is only for the duchess.”
“The duchess and I are great friends,” Mr. Snidefellow said. “She will be delighted to discover that I have had the use of her chair. You, being a mere boy raised in the depraved alleys of London, could not comprehend the delicate feeling between two highly cultured people. Do not even attempt it.”
Henry supposed he had Bertram to thank for being called “a mere boy raised in the depraved alleys of London.”
As Henry turned to go and give Sir Richard the bad news about who was calling, Mr. Snidefellow said, “I note that there is no butler in the house. I will assume that although your upbringing has not exceeded the standards of a common pirate, you will know enough to at least alert the housekeeper that a distinguished guest has arrived and direct her to fetch tea.”
Now he was a common pirate? He really would have to figure out what to do about Bertram. Henry said, “Yes, sir,” but decided Mrs. Splunket would be happier not knowing about the distinguished guest.
Henry ran up the stairs to Sir Richard’s bedchamber. Sir Richard was just buttoning up his coat when Henry told him that Mr. Snidefellow waited to see him in the caller’s drawing room.
“He’s in the house?” Sir Richard asked.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said.
“That is unfortunate. He’s come to call on me before, but until this moment he’s never set a foot indoors. Mrs. Splunket has always been very good about peeking out the window, seeing it was him, and hiding out in her nook until he left.”
“I should have peeked out the window too, but I didn’t and he was very forceful.”
“Blast it,” Sir Richard said. “I’ve managed to avoid the man quite successfully so far. The day after the tarantula’s run at cucumber sandwiches is a most inconvenient time to have to receive him. There must be something we can say to make him go away.”
“He seemed very determined, sir.”
Sir Richard suggested various reasons why he couldn’t see Mr. Snidefellow, ranging from having cholera to being out of town. Finally, convinced that the councilman would not be put off, he said, “All right, I’ll see what the man has to say. If he stays too long, I will claim I am coming down with scurvy and must excuse myself to go eat a lime.”
“But, sir,” Henry said, “didn’t you say scurvy only happened to sailors and that’s why they carry limes on the ship? Because the limes prevent the disease?”
“Indeed,” Sir Richard said, finishing the last button, “but he won’t know that, will he?”
Sir Richard entered the drawing room and stared at his guest. Snidefellow rose and bowed stiffly. “Sir,” he said, in a way that made a person feel like he really said, “Scandalous rogue.”
Sir Richard waved a dismissive hand and said, “Yes, Snidefellow, what is it?”
Mr. Snidefellow sat down and said, “I have had reports of an unusual event occurring at the duchess’s dusk-to-dawn croquet party. As the croquet party is the event of the season in this county, I object to anything unusual happening at it and find I must investigate. I will not allow, sir, for the good lady’s plans to be trifled with.”
Sir Richard folded his arms. “Did Henry tell you that you’re sitting on the good lady’s chair?”
Mr. Snidefellow sprang to his feet and pursed his lips. “He mentioned it.”
“The duchess is very particular about that chair. She picked out the fabric herself and I had it specially made in London. Absolutely nobody is to sit on that chair but the duchess herself.”
“I did not come to discuss chairs, sir. The reports I have heard are disturbing.”
“You weren’t there, then? Not on the guest list?” Sir Richard said. Henry thought he looked a little smug.
Mr. Snidefellow fussed with his cravat. “The duchess—who is a great friend of mine—enjoys my company on a regular basis. She knows of my busy schedule and the serious engagements I am … engaged in. She would not burden me with such frivolities.”
“Ah,” Sir Richard said. “Nobody would ever accuse you of frivolity.”
Mr. Snidefellow’s face had taken on a shade of red. He was clearly not accustomed to being talked to in such a manner. “Sir Richard,” he said, “I have come here to demand an explanation. Something unsavory went on last evening and I demand to know what it was. There were reports of an unearthly creature.”
“An unearthly creature?” Sir Richard said, laughing. “What sort of unearthly creature?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out!”
“All I observed was a very ordinary-looking wolf,” Sir Richard said, lounging on a sofa and looking bored with the whole conversation.
“We do not have wolves in this part of England!” Mr. Snidefellow said.
“It appears we do now,” Sir Richard said coolly.
Henry had been standing behind Sir Richard’s sofa. A movement out the window caught his eye.
Behind the councilman’s back, Mary lumbered out of the forest.
Henry tugged on Sir Richard’s sleeve. “Sir,” Henry said quietly, “I’ll just go feed the horses. Especially Mary.”
Sir Richard’s head snapped up. Henry prayed that Snidefellow would not decide to turn around.
“Each to his own tastes,” Mr. Snidefellow said, his eyes on Henry, “but if I employed a servant, I wouldn’t allow him to interrupt a conversation between gentlemen.”
Sir Richard ignored him and said, “Good idea, Henry. Just be careful. She bites, you know.”
Henry raced from the room as Mr. Snidefellow expounded on how he also wouldn’t allow a horse to bite him.
The kitchens were at the back of the manor, facing the forest. Henry was going to need Mrs. Splunket’s help to lure Mary back into the forest. The problem was what to tell her. But then, for all he knew she had already seen the beast.
Mrs. Splunket was grinding dried herbs with a mortar and pestle. A large pork roast sat on the counter beside her.
“Mrs. Splunket,” he said.
She turned around. “You gave me a start, dearie.” She peered at him. “Now look at you, all aflutter. What’s got you worked up?”
Henry took a deep breath and said, “I’ve got some bad news. About an experiment.”
Mrs. Splunket narrowed her eyes. “Of course you do. When is there ever any good news about an experiment? Sir Richard hasn’t gone and burned off his eyebrows again? I told him I won’t stand for it. We were the laughingstock of the village last time.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s about the tarantula John Fitzwilliam gave him. She’s now rather larger.”
Mrs. Splunket sprang into the air and landed on the counter with a thud. “Lord love me, tell me that thing ain’t loose in the house.”
“She’s not in the house, but I really need that pork roast. Do you mind if I take it?” Before Mrs. Splunket could say whether or not she minded her pork roast disappearing, Henry grabbed it and ran out to the kitchen garden.
“That roast is for dinner,” Mrs. Splunket called after him. “Them piranhas are eating us out of house and home.”
Henry thought he would have to somehow make it up to Mrs. Splunket as he weaved down the narrow kitchen garden paths. He dodged pots of herbs, a trellis of climbing beans, rows of cabbages, and raspberry bushes. As long as the tarantula didn’t move herself directly in front of the kitchen window, Henry didn’t think Mrs. Splunket would be able to see her. That would be for the best, since the housekeeper clearly didn’t comprehend how much larger Mary had become, and it would be better if she never did.
Henry fumbled with the latch on t
he gate and burst onto the back lawn.
The stables stood to the left of the narrow stretch of green that separated the estate from the Queen’s Forest. On the right side, the piranha pond with its mermaid fountain sprayed water into the air and a gazebo lined with benches sat close by the house.
The tarantula swayed next to the pond and lowered her large head to the water. She suddenly reared back.
Piranhas had latched onto one of her pedipalps, the short appendages near the creature’s mouth. Three of the silvery six-inch-long fish flapped back and forth, seeming determined to hold on to their prey, though they could not survive out of the water for long.
Mary knocked her pedipalps against the side of the pond and shook the piranhas free. One by one, the fish disappeared into the water with a splash.
Henry skirted the lawn and dashed toward the forest. At the tree line, he softly called, “Mary, look!” He waved the roast over his head.
The spider turned from the fountain. She paused and lifted her front legs, as if she were sniffing the air with them. Then she lumbered toward Henry and the forest.
He waited until the creature got within twenty feet, threw the pork roast into the trees, and ran. Henry paused near the gate to the kitchen garden. Mary charged into the forest after the roast. Henry supposed she had not yet learned to hunt larger prey and was hungry.
Henry ran through the kitchen. He apologized to Mrs. Splunket about the roast, but didn’t slow down to hear what she would say about it. He would pick her a bouquet of the nicest flowers he could find and make her a heartfelt apology after Snidefellow left the house.