by Joan Smith
“That’s high enough, Menrod,” I ordered. “Stop now, please.”
He pushed harder, harder, till I actually had some fears for my safety. On the swing forward, my toes disappeared in the leaves of the tree. My protests too rose higher, till I was shrieking like a fishwife, holding on for dear life to the cords between my fingers. I could feel my hair slipping away from its pins, and was helpless to get it under control. My skirts were blowing straight into my face, causing a disgraceful show below.
Then, when I was distracted with fear and embarrassment, then he strolled around to the front to observe me. As the momentum decreased, and I settled down to a still high but no longer dangerous arc, I was able to see the expression on his face. He looked demonic, with a satirical smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes. I was so angry I leapt off before the swing was anywhere near stopping.
My precipitous flight from the seat sent me catapulting forward, where I stubbed my toe and would have hit the ground, had he not had the presence of mind to catch me. His hands grasped my upper arms tightly, while my head bumped against his chest. I was gasping for breath.
“Why in the devil did you do that?” I demanded angrily.
He held me back to examine me. With his head perched on one side, he answered, “Curiosity,” in a reasonable tone.
“Next time you want to test some theory about motion, please submit someone else to the experiment.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a theory of motion I was testing. Let us say, rather, it was emotion.”
“If your aim was to see how angry you could make me, then let me tell you...”
“Angry enough to put a sparkle in your eyes and a blush on your cheeks, at least, which is an improvement over your customary composure.”
“Thank you,” I sniffed, in an attempt at satire.
Gwen and Ralph had come running up during the fracas, “Why are you holding Aunt Harris, Uncle?” Gwen enquired, in a clear, piping voice.
“To prevent her from scratching my eyes out,” he answered,
I wrenched free from his hold. “Your uncle is in a playful mood today, children,” I explained.
“Not at all,” he contradicted. “I was conducting an experiment.”
“What did you find out?” she asked, with a curious look from one of us to the other.
“I merely confirmed that your aunt has a temper. You interrupted us before we were through,” he answered, with a soft smile curving his lips. His eyes regarded my face for a long moment, then he tucked a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. “It looks better in disorder, but less like Miss Harris. These tokens of abandonment
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
Why don’t we try it à la victime for the ball?”
He bowed and left before I thought of a retort to this brash speech. “Come along, urchins,” he called over his shoulder to the children. “And say thank you to Auntie. We must not forget our manners.”
The children obeyed, but Menrod so far forgot his manners as to leave without apologizing.
* * *
Chapter 15
We had two minor excitements the next morning. The noisier of the two by far was the disappearance of Lady. She had been restless of late, due to her maturing state. In theory she was restricted in the house to the kitchen and Mrs. Pudge’s chamber, but in fact it was not unusual to see her parade through the place, upstairs and down, as if she owned it. When Mrs. Pudge came asking whether we had seen her, I suggested she try the bedrooms.
“I believe she hears the mice in the thatched roof, and sits on the bed, wondering how to get at them,” I mentioned.
“She might be out back, trying to get at the roof from a tree,” Mama suggested.
Our housekeeper flapped off to check out this possibility. Around ten, she came back to ask if we had seen Lady. “She’s not had her breakfast. She never goes off without her breakfast. She was curled up on the end of my bed last night, and this morning when I got up, she was gone. Pudge left the door ajar.”
“She could not have left the house, though,” Mama pointed out.
“Pudge is as blind as a bat. He was out early this morning, getting fuel for my stove. She walked right past him, though he won’t admit it. If there’s nothing special you want me for, I’m going to take a walk around the orchard. She must be starved by now.”
While she was gone, our second excitement occurred. With Mrs. Pudge out hunting Lady, and her husband in the kitchen doing her work, I was consigned to the role of butler. My first admission was Lord Menrod and the children.
His excuse for coming was to allow Gwen to show off her new pony, and Ralph his improved skill in the saddle. I noticed my niece was outfitted in an elegant green riding habit, by no means too small for her. The minx had got me to provide her a new one, when her own was better than mine. I do not often get to ride, but occasionally a neighbor’s mount is put at my disposal.
“Will you come out and watch us ride, Grandma?” Gwen asked.
We were happy to go, especially on a fresh morning in April when spring was just arrived. Gwen would be a fine horsewoman in a few years. She had a good seat, an easy hand, and no fear of her mount. Menrod proudly proclaimed her a “natural,” while I loudly praised Ralph’s scanty progress.
It was a pity the boy of the family could not be the athlete. They rode in circles around the family garden, then were allowed to trot down through the orchard. With nothing but Menrod’s company to amuse her, Mama soon found the wind was rising, and went indoors.
“You will stay out and watch the children, Wendy?” she asked.
“We’ll stay, Mrs. Harris,” Menrod answered quickly.
“Do you want another turn on the swing?” he asked with a bantering smile, setting off at a slow pace toward the orchard, following the children.
“I am not dressed for it,” I answered. “Trousers ought to be worn by any damsel foolish enough to let you push her.”
“Here I had hopes you referred only to a lack of lace on your petticoats. I do believe ladies in swings ought to be plentifully supplied with lace on their undergarments—’tempestuous petticoat,’ the poet calls them. It is an international thing—you see it in the Watteau paintings Everett has as well. You favor a spartan toilette, Miss Harris.”
“If I ever pose for Watteau, I shall be sure to load myself down with lace.”
"That is unlikely. The man has been dead for close to a hundred years. You are not much interested in art, I take it?”
“No, not much,” I replied, scanning the grass for Lady.
“Do you ride at all?” was his next question.
“I used to, a few years ago. My mount expired of old age, and I have not ridden since.”
“You must have had some lively jogs, those last few years. Why do you not get a new mount?”
“For lack of interest. And capital,” I added, more truthfully.
“How delightful to find you capable of a pun.”
“Equally surprising to find you appreciate one,” I replied, with matching condescension.
“Have I offended again? Tch tch, and I wasn’t even trying.”
I veered off to the left to look behind a thorn bush, thinking Lady might be lurking there to catch a bird.
“Are we looking for something?” he asked.
“You might keep your eyes peeled for Lady, Mrs. Pudge’s white kitten. She has vanished into thin air.”
“How intriguing. The Lady Vanishes—quite like a gothic mystery. I expect you read gothic stories.”
“I haven’t time for much reading. She does not have wings, Menrod. The ground is where we will find her,” I said, as he had stopped to stare all around—up in the trees, the sky, and other unlikely places.
“I was admiring the newly formed leaves, so dainty this time of year, like green lace.”
“That would appeal to you, of course. You have a fetish about lace. Were you deprived of it as a child?”
/> “As a child, but I have made up the deficiency since coming of age,” he answered daringly, with a bold smile to show he spoke of petticoat dealings.
I did not humor him with a sniff, or show any sign of being either outraged or impressed with his boasting. He decided to give me an explanation. “I feel one owes it to himself to enjoy and appreciate all the good things the Lord has provided us with on this earth: pretty women, the arts, literature, music, horses, and so on. It is a mistake to think goodness exists in denial of the bounty around us, don’t you agree?”
“This is another of the famous Menrod theories, I assume. Enjoy them, by all means, if you are able to afford it. I enjoy what meager bounties as come my way. The trouble with theories is trying to execute them. I’m sure a veteran theoretician like yourself has discovered that fact eons ago.”
“Money and freedom of one’s time are of course necessary to appreciate the finer things of life. If you accepted Everett’s offer, you would have both.”
“I would also have Everett. Tell me, Menrod, are the children included in your list of the good things of life to be enjoyed? Are they considered as paintings, or horses, in your scheme of things? Interesting objects, and no more?”
We had caught up with them. They did make a lovely picture, the two youngsters on their matching ponies, trotting and laughing in the sunlight. As I glanced at Menrod, I noticed the appreciative smile he wore at the handsome picture.
“More than that, though they ought to be painted. Who should we have do it?” He gave a disparaging laugh. “You would not know the good artists working in England, of course. Reynolds and Romney are gone.”
“This sounds a project to please yourself, not the children.”
“I shall teach them to appreciate the finer things in life. Can you, in your straitened circumstances?”
“So there was a point to this conversation! I began to think you were drawing forth my deficiencies for no other reason than meanness,”
His smile vanished, to be replaced by a black scowl.
“It is not wealth that creates a mean mind, but poverty,” he answered sharply.
“Sorry I cannot afford to be so magnanimous as you.”
“You cannot afford to raise the children as they ought to be raised, and you will not accept Everett to make it possible. You are not willing to sacrifice for them. What makes you think you deserve them more than I?”
“What sacrifice are you willing to make?”
“I am here. Normally I would be elsewhere in the spring, having a better time. That shows clearly I am willing to sacrifice for them.”
“Is it such a sacrifice, to spend six weeks in a mansion, surrounded by every luxury money can buy? All things are relative.”
He soon found it expedient to take the children home, mentioning in an offhand way he wished to arrange to have their portraits taken.
One excitement that did not visit us was the invitations to the ball. We now knew we were to attend, but it would have been more graceful if we had a piece of cardboard saying so. I, for one, was uncertain whether we should go without receiving the invitations. A dozen times a day Mama bemoaned their absence.
“Menrod must have forgotten to tell his stepmother,” she would fret.
“He said he would post them himself,” I reminded her.
“It has slipped his mind. How very odd.”
Mr. Everett dropped in every second day, as usual. He occasionally teased me about our spurious engagement, but in no pressing way. He mentioned having seen Lady Althea, Menrod, and the children in Reading on two different occasions.
“A fine-looking family,” he commented. “I believe it may come to a match ere long. Don’t fret your pretty little head, Wendy. Lady Althea will make them a good mother. She is very fond of those kiddies, treats them as if they were her own.”
I made some ill-natured remark that set Mama to tsking at me.
Lady did not show up, throwing Mrs. Pudge into a great pelter. She spoke of the loss till we were all weary with her groaning. She was consumed with grief, as though it were a daughter that had gone, and not a stupid cat.
“That devil cat has got her,” she repined. “Kidnapped her, taken her away to the Manor. She made her bed in hell, and must lie on it.”
Ralph and Gwen came down twice, on those days when Mr. Everett did not come. Gwen came to follow the progress of her riding habit, and to urge even greater fineries on me. “Could I have a little mink collar on it, Auntie?” she asked sweetly. “I shall keep it for a winter habit. My green one will be for warmer weather, for it was made in India, you know, and is not at all heavy.”
“Children don’t need fur trim, Gwen,” I told her.
“Uncle Menrod is getting me a fur-lined cape for winter,” she announced on the second call. “I told him how cold I am all the time, after living in India. I think I have got a cold. My lungs are congested,” she said, with a cough to prove the point.
There were other extravagant gifts from Menrod as well, more than a child required, or than were good for her. She wore a small pearl ring too, a gift from Aunt Althea for helping her wind her woolens.
Ralph was his usual undemanding self, wanting nothing but my companionship. I seem always to be pointing out Gwen’s greedy side, but between asking for things, she was sweet and likable. She would be happy to curl up beside us in the sitting room and hear stories about her mother’s childhood. She asked questions about it, showing how often Hettie had spoken of us, and how well she had listened too. I did not dislike her by any means, but was aware that she had a greedy streak in her makeup, or perhaps only a love of beautiful things.
One day she went to Hettie’s room and picked up half a dozen of her mother’s items, some books, a little wooden jewelry box with some childish beads in it, and other baubles. Mama smiled dotingly, thinking it a sentimental gesture, but it struck me as more. She had inherited this appreciation of the world’s bounties from her papa’s side of the family. She even tried her hand at relieving me of one of my more cherished possessions—an ivory miniature of Hettie—but I refused to let it go.
“Maybe I can get a copy made when we go to London. When are you going to take us to London, Auntie?”
“I don’t plan a trip soon,” I told her stiffly.
On the fifth day after his last visit, Menrod came again, rather late in the evening, I was surprised to see him, as a hard wind had blown up, carrying with it a few drops of rain, which augured more to follow soon. The air was oppressive. We sat shivering in the sitting room, bundled in shawls, discussing the wisdom of lighting the fire and being smoked to death, but had not come to a decision.
“A terrible night,” Menrod complained, coming in to shake the rain drops from his shoulders.
“What brings you out on such a night?” Mama enquired.
“Necessity, ma’am,” he said, handing her two white squares. “I discovered these cards under a pile of letters on my desk, and realized I had not given them to your daughter on my last visit, as I intended. I blame the lapse on her scintillating conversation. We got pulling some crow or other, and it slipped my mind. Very remiss of me, but it is a formality only. You knew you were to come.”
Mama was so relieved to get the cards that she actually cropped out into a smile and a few words of gratitude.
“You need not have come out in the rain only for that,” I told him.
“You are welcome too, Miss Harris,” he answered, with a formal bow and a less formal scowl.
After a few questioning looks at the cold grate, all ready to be lit, Mama understood he was wondering why we had no fire, and suggested lighting it.
“A very good idea,” he agreed unhesitatingly.
Pudge was called, to labor with the tinder box, then with twigs, newspapers, and other inducements to the flame when the fire did not take. At length, a weak lick of orange was flickering. Menrod arose and poked about at it impatiently, rearranging the logs to allow some draught.
His r
eward was a blast of smoke in the face that set him to coughing. On his next poke, the handle fell off the poker. He was so unaccustomed to making a fire that he picked up the hot shaft, and burned his fingers. He looked in disgruntlement at the antique fire irons. “Does nothing work around here?” he asked in vexation.
“We like to keep the proper antiques on hand, to match the authenticity of the place,” I reminded him. Mama, still happy with the invitations, darted to the corner to retrieve the newer poker for his use. The smoke increased with the flames, till it was necessary to vacate the room or be suffocated.
“You ought to have that chimney swept out,” he informed us.
“It is the thatched roof that makes it so difficult. A man dare not stand on it, you know, and our grate is so small a boy cannot get up from below. As you mentioned yourself on the stairway when you bumped your head, people must have been smaller two hundred years ago,” I said.
“It is not at all impossible to walk on a thatched roof, providing it is done carefully,” he answered unhesitatingly.
“Pudge is not agile,” Mama apologized.
“I’ll send a man down from the Manor. This is ridiculous. Where do you customarily sit when the sitting room is full of smoke?” he asked. I made sure he would leave instead, but it was not his intention.
“Wendy takes refuge in her conservatory, and I go to my bed,” Mama answered.
“We shall all go to the conservatory. Bring some lights, Pudge,” Menrod ordered. “It is as dark as pitch in this hallway,” he pointed out. A coat of light-yellow paint would lighten it, but it was only our own furnishings we dared put the brush to. As Mama was included in the command, she came along with us, still clutching the invitations.
My tiny conservatory had only two chairs, so that Pudge was required to make more than one trip. On his second, I further disobliged him by requesting some tea, which Mrs. Pudge brought about twenty minutes later. She does not usually loiter when we have such high company as Menrod, but on this occasion she hovered at the door after the tea was brought.