Friends and Lovers

by Joan Smith

  I felt it best to divert his thoughts, and offered to read him a story. We went together upstairs to the small room where our childhood relics were stored. There being only two girls in the family, we had not those tomes most likely to appeal to a young boy, but he found a book of old English tales having to do with knights on chargers and ladies locked in towers, that appealed to him.

  He sat very close to me, actually clutching onto my skirts. I felt a rush of tenderness for him that was sorely lacking toward his sister, though I had always assumed it would be the girl, my own name-child, who would appeal more to me.

  “Would you like to sit on my lap, Ralph?” I asked.

  “Yes, please,” he said, easing himself up and leaning his little dark head against my chest. His fingers played nervously with the folds of my skirt. He felt such a pitiful, bereft little soul that I wanted to just cradle him in my arms and comfort him. There was a lump in my throat that made reading difficult.

  This child, whatever about his sister, needed more than a housekeeper and an uncle who bought him a wooden horse, then drove off in his carriage to let the boy sit alone, learning to ride it.

  We got on famously, Ralph and I. By teatime, he was clinging to me quite as fiercely as he used to cling to Menrod. Gwen, happy to have a large cake before her, became communicative and friendly, easy to like. Mama smiled dotingly on her, occasionally wiping away a tear. Gwen thanked us politely when tea was over, and said it was time she be getting home. It galled me, to hear the children call Menrod Manor home.

  “As your uncle has gone to London for a few days, we thought you might like to stay here with us,” I said, giving a casual sound to it. Letting them know a battle was raging over them was the last thing I wanted.

  “I would like to stay,” Ralph said at once.

  Gwen sat considering the invitation carefully. I had an intuition her mind grappled with the probable quantities of cake and attention the two homes afforded. “All right, we’ll stay,” she decided. Her next speech showed me I was too hard on her. “Will you show me my mother’s room again, Auntie? May I sleep in her bed?”

  She received a sympathetic yes to both questions, and a more sincere smile than usual from her aunt as well. “I shall send a note up to the Manor, asking them to send down some clothing,” I mentioned to Mama. I knew my eyes were sparkling with triumph, could feel the smile curl my lips.

  “Good girl,” Pudge congratulated as I went into the hallway toward the study. He had been auditing the whole from his hiding place outside the door. I dashed off a polite note, and had Pudge take it up to the Manor. He was back within the hour, to tell me Mrs. Butte thought it would be better if the children returned at once to the Manor. Within five minutes more, one of Menrod’s lesser vehicles was at the door to collect them.

  “My niece and nephew are remaining with their grandmother for the present. You may tell Mrs. Butte so, as she will want to inform his lordship when he returns. Good night.”

  “Yes, Miss Harris,” the servant answered respectfully. All Menrod’s servants are well behaved, but there was an expression of startled incredulity on the young man’s face at my daring.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  We had two uninterrupted days of Gwen and Ralph’s company. It was long enough to convince me Gwen was a sly, self-willed girl, possessed of a wide streak of charm, which she could turn on at will to get her own way. Any wish we had to deny her was met with the statement that Uncle Menrod let her do it, or have it, depending on the situation.

  You would no sooner be convinced she was a selfish, conning rogue than she would show some uncommon concern and understanding for her brother, or Grandma, or even Auntie Harris. Her understanding was quick, her conversation entertaining for a child her age.

  Mama said at least a dozen times a day she was “so very like Hettie.” I confess shamelessly I fell in love with Ralph. Nothing pulls at the heartstrings so violently as a shy little child who attaches himself to you and shows openly he would rather be with you than anyone else in the world. It was Ralph’s way with me.

  Whether I was in my conservatory tending the plants, in the study going over accounts, by the fireside sewing, or bustling about the house helping Mrs. Pudge, he was there. He only left my side to go to the stables for half an hour each morning and afternoon. On his last visit he returned earlier, as he had skinned his finger. I gave him a large plaster, to make him feel important.

  It was these trips to the stables that brought to a head the matter of clothing. Mrs. Butte did not send any down from the Manor. Gwen, though neat as a pin, had got cocoa spilled on her gown, while Ralph was grimed from helping the groom. On the evening of their first whole day with us, we women got our heads together to see what was to be done. We decided to make Gwen a new robe, cut down from one of Hettie’s, while Ralph was to be reoutfitted in a shirt and trousers cut down from an old outfit of my father’s. The measuring and cutting were done that evening, the sewing the next day. Shortly after lunch, they had their clean clothing on, while their better outfits were being cleaned.

  We were not so ambitious as to tackle a jacket for Ralph. There is some mystery involved in setting in a sleeve, that has evaded the three of us during our whole lives. The third was Mrs. Pudge. Any attempt results in an unsightly puff at the sleeve’s top, just where it joins the shoulder. This is well enough in a lady’s gown, but would not do for a boy’s jacket.

  Mama took care of Gwen’s dress, fashioning it in a manner similar to the pinafores my sister and I had worn some twenty years ago. She could not resist the impulse to add Hettie’s childhood coiffure to cap her effort, Gwen’s curls were done up in a topknot no longer seen in England, though it looked very sweet. Gwen had been at pains to bring Mrs. Pudge, the provider of sweets, around her thumb. As we took dinner that evening, another of the foot-high Chinese cakes was on the table. With our shortage of servants and space, the children dined with us, as is done in smaller households. At the Manor, they would be upstairs, eating with servants.

  “May I have some tea?” Gwen inquired politely.

  Our limited supply of lemons had run out that afternoon. We had not been prepared for so much lemonade as was drunk by the children. “Why not? I’ll make it half milk,” I agreed.

  Ralph too had to have tea then, more for the attention than any real desire to drink it. He spooned an unconscionable quantity of sugar into his cup, but as it was clear he was not going to drink it, we did not worry.

  We were just terminating a very enjoyable meal when there was a loud knock at the cottage door. Mrs. Pudge, loitering near the dining room door, said, “I’ll get it. Pudge is washing my pots in the kitchen.” She went absentmindedly, holding a serving bowl of carrots in her hand, to do so. As we had not seen Mr. Everett for two days, I had a feeling it would be he, though the hour was inconvenient.

  Within seconds, Mrs. Pudge came trotting back to inform us, “He is in a great pucker, come to pick up the kiddies.”

  “Menrod?” Mama enquired, quite unnecessarily.

  Mrs. Pudge nodded her topknot. “He’s looking over them stairs with a magnifying glass.”

  This was an exaggeration, though he was actually sticking his fingers into the grooves where one piece of wood met another. “There is no matching the original work,” was his gruff greeting. “This is poorly done. I’ll send my carpenter down from the Manor to see what he can do.”

  “Good evening,” I said. “Our housekeeper tells me you are come to see the children. They are just finishing dinner. Would you care to wait in the sitting room? We shall be finished presently.”

  “I would not dream of disturbing your dinner. I shall join you there,” he answered, leveling a menacing stare at me.

  He followed closely at my heels, making me minutely aware of how casually we were dining, by his black evening suit. He must have taken dinner all alone too, or more likely would do so when he returned to the Manor, as we keep country hours. I knew nothing would be done in
the country style there.

  Mama received a proper bow before he turned his attention to the children. His eyes opened wider to see Gwen decked out like a fashion plate from the last century, shoveling large forkfuls of the cake into her mouth. She stopped to greet him. Ralph sat silent, playing with the bandage on his finger.

  “Sit down, Menrod,” I invited. “Mrs. Pudge, perhaps our guest would like a glass of wine.”

  “Thank you, no. I shall just wait till you have all finished dinner, then we must have a private talk.” His eyes flickered over the children, indicating his words were not for their ears. “Your mother, you, and myself,” he added.

  Mama, the coward, immediately set down her cup and said, “Come along, children. Grandma will take you upstairs. You speak to Menrod, Wendy. You know our position, and can discuss it with him.”

  I was surprised Menrod said so little to the children. I thought he would be eager to ingratiate himself. He examined them closely enough, to be sure, but there was so grim a set to his jaws, that everyone was ill at ease. As Ralph got up, Menrod said, “I see you have hurt yourself, Ralph. Was a doctor called?”

  “A mere scratch,” I said.

  “The size of that bandage would indicate a more serious accident,” he replied suspiciously. “Come here, Ralph, and let me see if it has been properly cleaned. We don’t want blood poisoning setting in.”

  Ralph went dutifully. The bandage was removed, to show a scratch already well on the way to healing. “Do you think he will live?” I asked satirically.

  Menrod said nothing. We went to the sitting room, while Mama took the children upstairs. I indicated a chair for him by the cold grate. We do not ignite our logs unless it should be necessary, owing to the smoke that seeps slowly into the room. It is usually required to open a window, which undoes all the good of the fire. I took up the chair opposite, both of us sitting as stiffly erect as a pair of formal statues.

  “May I know what you hope to accomplish by this stunt?” he asked, reining in his temper.

  “My aim was to enjoy the company of my niece and nephew, as you were not doing so. “Anytime I wish, either here or at the Manor, providing they are not busy with their classes, you said. You forgot to inform your housekeeper of the arrangement.”

  “Cut line, Miss Harris. We both know that was not your ultimate aim. This amounts to nothing less than kidnapping.”

  “You had best consult with your solicitor, sir. Kidnapping implies illegal removal of someone from his rightful guardian. I believe there is a matter of ransom involved as well. You are no more their rightful guardian than I am. The children are wards of the court, at the moment.”

  He withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket, a long sheet, plastered with impressive-looking red seals, several black signatures, and a deal of Latinate mumbo-jumbo. “As of noon today, I am their legal guardian,” he said, passing the sheet rather quickly under my nose. I grabbed hold of a corner of it before he could withdraw it.

  I scanned the sheet quickly, confirming that the piece of paper did indeed appoint him sole guardian, but on an interim basis only, till the case could be permanently decided by the courts. I was stunned at the speed with which he had moved, and out of reason cross that Culligan had not done the same on my behalf. They had told me at the Manor he went to London to hire a governess—an effort to put smoke in my eyes.

  “Your people at the Manor were misinformed. I was told you went to London to hire a governess.”

  “I did that too.”

  I continued reading the sheet. Close to the bottom I discovered what I wished to know. His interim guardianship was for six weeks only, this apparently being the period necessary for him to gain permanent control. “It was possible to find one willing to leave the city for only a six-week job, was it?” I asked.

  “My servants are hired subject to a probationary period. If she works out, I shall keep her on.”

  “Providing you still require her services. My solicitor feels my chances of gaining custody are good.”

  “You took my advice? Whom did you hire?”

  “A man from the city,” I answered grandly, and also vaguely.

  “As you have not left the neighborhood, I must assume you refer to that muckraker of a Culligan, from Reading. I don’t know of anyone else working locally who was run out of London.”

  “I have employed Mr. Culligan. He seems capable.”

  “Capable of robbing you blind. If you are not involved in a worse legal battle than this for custody of the children before you are through, you may count yourself lucky. His last client—two or three years ago—ended up in Old Bailey on fraud charges. Beware what you put a signature to, in your dealings with him. He invents the crooked schemes, but is careful to arrange matters so that his clients bear the blame.”

  “We cannot all afford to dash off to London to hire an expensive man from the city.”

  “Very true. We cannot all afford to raise two children properly either. For what reason is Gwendolyn dressed like a character from a medieval play? Do you want to make the child a laughingstock? I trust she has not been seen on the streets in that antique outfit?”

  “She has not been on the streets at all. She has not left the house.”

  “You have kept her cooped up here for over forty-eight hours, stuffing her with sweets and depriving her of fresh air and exercise. Handsomely done! I would have easy work gaining custody if I left them with you for a fortnight.”

  “She wanted to stay in. Ralph was out—he went to the stables twice a day. And pray do not raise any foolish mention of that scratch on his finger.”

  “My only interest in it is that you have made a big to do of nothing, putting a king-sized plaster on it. It is typical of the over-mothering he would be subjected to here, with two ladies hovering over him like a pair of broody hens. He is half a girl already, owing to the way he was raised in India. He wants toughening up. He won’t get it here, but he will damned well get it from me.”

  “He is a sensitive boy—a child! How can you be so unfeeling?”

  “Boys become overly sensitive when they are too much protected and too much with women.”

  “If you bully him, Menrod...”

  “I am not a monster. I realize the peculiar circumstances he has been subjected to. I find it wantonly cruel of you to add to the turmoil by this game of playing mother, snatching the children away, and very likely filling their heads with stories against me.”

  “I have not! We weren’t talking about you! We have better things to discuss.”

  “Those children are going to make their home with me. Make no mistake about that. If you turn them against me, you only make their role, and my own, more difficult, not that you care a groat for the latter. What will appeal to your selfishness is that you also lessen your chances of having any access whatsoever to them. If I continue to find your influence disruptive to their development, I shall get an injunction forbidding you within a country mile of them. It can be done. Don’t doubt for an instant I will do it, if this nonsense continues.”

  “You have a high opinion of your powers. Even lofty earls are not above the law. If the County Court decides in my favor, we shall see who is kept a mile from them.”

  “The County Court is not involved. This will be settled in Chancery.”

  “I don’t care if I have to take it to the Supreme Court.”

  “Chancery is an integral part of the Supreme Court. I can only assume you have had a hasty lesson in forensic matters from Mr. Culligan. I should have thought even he would at least know where to apply for custody.”

  “He knows plenty, including a few tricks your expensive solicitor doesn’t.”

  “You overestimate my expenditure. Sir Nathan Beckwith refused to accept any payment to represent me. He is considered the foremost expert in these custody battles. Well, see you in court, Miss Harris. Would you be kind enough to have my charges sent down now? It is past Ralph’s bedtime.”

  Every atom of my
body wanted to strike out at him, to push him out the door and bar it, to hold onto the children, most particularly dear little Ralph. But he had the interim custody decree from Chancery, and rather than submit the children to any more fuss, I did as he asked. Mama brought them down.

  “Do I have to go now?” Ralph asked, holding onto my fingers. “I hoped you would read me another story, Auntie.”

  “Another time, dear. Your uncle is taking you to his house tonight.”

  “Your wooden horse is waiting for you at home. He is getting lonesome,” Menrod said, with an enthusiastic forced smile.

  “Did you buy me anything in London?” Gwen asked.

  “You might find a bag of sugarplums in your room,” he tempted.

  “Tch, tch, stuffing the child with sweets!” I said.

  “An occasional treat is permissible,” he informed me.

  “When can we come back?” Ralph asked.

  “We’ll be back one of these days,” his uncle answered, revealing nothing.

  The children were not totally desolate to leave, in light of the treats awaiting them at the Manor..

  “So you let him walk off with Hettie’s little kiddies, did you?” was Mrs. Pudge’s greeting when she strolled into the sitting room.

  “He had been to London to get an interim custody decree arranged. There was no preventing him.”

  “Aye, the throne of iniquity frameth mischief by a law,” she answered sadly. “The courts always take the counsel of the ungodly.”

  “He sneaked off to London for the very purpose of arranging it quickly,” I explained.

  “They got their heads together to commune of laying snares privily,” she declared.

  “We must go to see Culligan tomorrow, Mama.”

  “Yes, we must hear what he has to say about it.”

  “Menrod has no good opinion of the man,” I said.

  “A brutish man knoweth not, neither does a fool understand,” Mrs. Pudge thought.