The Velvet Room

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Three years before, when Theda and Robin had first started sharing a folding cot, it had not been so bad; but now they were both bigger. So they had worked out a system. A folding cot is much too narrow for two to sleep side by side, so they each took an end. Part of the night they curled up tight, leaving half the bed for the other person. Then, when their knees started aching to be straightened out, they turned on their sides so the other’s legs could stretch out.

  In spite of everything, Robin overslept the next morning, so there was nothing to do, she decided, but go to Bridget’s and get back very quickly so she wouldn’t be missed. After breakfast, Mr. Criley came in the truck to get Rudy. They were going to the highway to get the Model T and haul it to the Williamses’ cabin. Robin went out to watch Rudy off, and then she just stayed outside. After Theda and Shirley went back in, Robin started easing away from the house. She was pretty good at that sort of thing. It was just a matter of looking innocently busy at something—like maybe hitting a rock with a stick—while you edged closer and closer to the point where it was safe to make a run for it.

  Robin had knocked her rock clear out in front of the next cabin and had started after it when suddenly, from somewhere quite close, a voice said softly, “Robin’s ‘wandering off’ again.”

  It was Cary’s voice, but she couldn’t see him anywhere. “Shh!” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Here, under the house.”

  Robin got down and looked, and there he was, stretched out in the dust behind a clump of sickly-looking weeds. He was looking at a book. At least it was part of a book. It must have been in someone’s bonfire, because the cover was missing and the outer pages were charred.

  “I won’t say it any louder,” Cary said, “if you’ll tell me some words.” Cary was always after Robin to tell him words. He hadn’t been to school much because there had been so much moving since he was old enough to go. But Cary wanted to read, and nobody ever stopped Cary from doing anything he really wanted to do. His system was to go through every bit of reading material he could get his hands on and underline every word he didn’t know. Then he cornered someone, usually Robin, because she was the best reader, and made that person tell him all the underlined words. Robin had to admit he hardly ever had to be told twice.

  But the half-burned book was an old almanac, and there were lots of big words. Cary insisted that Robin pronounce each word slowly and then wait for him to say it over after her. His homely little speckled face was puckered with concentration, and he whispered each word fiercely as if he could threaten himself into remembering. Robin felt a grudging admiration. Feeling the way she did about books, she couldn’t help but understand, in spite of her impatience. But with all the hard place names, and words like “population” and “agriculture,” it took a long time to go through the three pages that Cary had underlined.

  When he finally repeated the last word, Robin jumped up and started off across the yard. Any minute now someone would be calling her from inside the cabin. But Cary called after her softly, “Will you tell me some more when you come back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Robin!”

  She stopped and looked back. ‘Shh!” she said. “What is it?” But she saw the wicked blue flicker in his eyes and knew what was coming next. He was going to threaten to tell on her again. “All right!” she said angrily. “All right, I promise.” Cary crawled back under the house, and Robin was finally off down the Village road.

  In the orchard she ran as fast as she could go. She came to the wall, climbed over it, and stopped only a second to look at the big stone house. When she reached Bridget’s cottage, she was out of breath. She stood for a minute at the gate, slowing her breathing and looking at the bright flowers and the dark richness of the soil. You would think that dirt was just dirt, but how different Bridget’s looked from the hard-packed, dust-blown soil of the Village. She walked around to the back of the cottage and knocked.

  Bridget didn’t ask any questions when Robin explained that she was in a hurry. She only thanked her for coming and watched, smiling, as Robin took down the chain and hammer. Damon and Pythias were asleep on the roof of Betty’s shed, and Robin paused long enough to stand on tiptoe and give them each a quick pat. The staking out didn’t take long at all because Betty seemed to sense that Robin could move much faster than Bridget, and she trotted along so fast that Robin had to run to keep up. When she returned to the cottage to leave the hammer, Bridget was waiting at the door with something in her hand.

  “It was kind of you to come,” she said.

  “It was fun,” Robin said. ‘Maybe next time I can stay a while—if that’s all right.”

  ‘I hope you can, my dear.” Bridget put the small white package in Robin’s hand. “These are for you. You’d best eat them on the way home.”

  Just outside the gate Robin stopped long enough to peek inside the package. There, carefully wrapped in clean white paper, were three fat dark cookies, lumpy with raisins. Their sweet spicy odor made Robin swallow hard. It had been a long time since the Williamses had had any extra money to spend on sweets.

  The cookies were too wonderful to waste by gobbling, so Robin decided to forget about hurrying and take her chances on being missed. She walked slowly through the orchard, taking very tiny nibbles. They were marvelous cookies, rich and moist and chewy. She was halfway through the second one when there was a sudden thudding rush and Robin jumped back as a black horse galloped right across her path. The horse saw Robin and shied into an orange tree, almost unseating the blond girl on its back.

  “Ouch!” the girl cried, jerking angrily at the reins. “Whoa! Oh, stop it!” The horse was skittering sideways and snorting. Robin stood quietly, and after a moment he seemed to realize that she wasn’t really dangerous. He stretched his neck, snuffed at her, and then stood still. He was beautiful—high-necked, seal-sleek, and quivering with life. Robin finally managed to take her eyes off him and give her attention to the girl on his back.

  Now that the horse had quieted, the girl was inspecting her arm where the orange tree had scratched it. She seemed to be about Robin’s age. She was wearing jodhpurs, black boots, and a plaid shirt, and her fluffy blond hair was tied back with a black ribbon. “Look what that stupid horse did to me,” she said, but there was no real anger in her voice.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Robin said. “I frightened him.”

  The girl smiled. She had a nice smile, quick and real, with deep dimples on each side. “Mirlo’s always looking for something to be afraid of.” She drew her brows together and looked at Robin with a puzzled expression. Then she smiled again. “Oh, I know. You must be from the new family that just moved into the Village. What’s that?”

  Robin realized the girl was pointing to the package of cookies. “Cookies,” she said, gently pushing back the paper. There was a whole cookie and a half left. She didn’t really want to, but she added, “Would you like one?”

  “You must have been to Bridget’s,” the girl said. “Thanks, I love Bridget’s cookies. She makes the best in the world.” She took the whole cookie, and to Robin’s dismay, ate it in two bites. Suddenly she looked puzzled again. “How did you happen to go to Bridget’s?” she asked. “Don’t you Village kids think she’s a witch?”

  “A witch!” Robin exclaimed. “That’s silly. I think she’s nice.” For the moment she completely forgot the funny feeling she’d had when she first saw the foreign-looking stone cottage and the bent woman. “Why do they think she’s a witch? Who is she, anyway?”

  “She used to be my nurse,” the blond girl said, “until she got so crippled with arthritis. Now Daddy lets her live in the old gardener’s cottage. She’s really awfully nice, and she loves kids. It’s too bad the Village kids are all afraid of her.” She smiled at Robin. “Most of them, that is.” She crossed one booted leg over the flat English saddle and leaned her elbow on her leg. Putting her chin in her hand, she just looked at Robin. It was a friendly look, but it lasted too long
to be comfortable. After awhile the girl said, “I’m Gwen McCurdy. Who are you?”

  “I’m Robin Williams,” Robin said, allowing a small smile.

  The girl smiled back. Then she cocked her head and surveyed Robin critically. “You know something?” she said. “You’re really pretty. At least you could be. You have terrific eyelashes—just like Hedy Lamarr’s. I wish mine were like that,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust, “instead of short and blond. You ought to do something to your hair though ...

  Robin felt her cheeks get hot, and although she tried to stop it, her hand went to her straight dark hair. She turned quickly and started off towards the Village. In a moment there were hoofbeats, and the black horse was walking beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.” They walked on side by side. Robin kept her head down, watching her own bare feet and the high proud steps of the horse. “Look! Would you like a ride home?”

  Robin stopped almost in mid-step. Pride was important, but some things were more important. “Come on,” Gwen said, leaning down, “give me your hand.”

  A few minutes later Mama and Theda and Shirley crowded to the door of the cabin in time to see Robin swing down from the back of a dancing black horse. As the horse pranced away sideways, the girl on his back held him in long enough to wave and call, “Good-by Robin, see you later.”

  “Good-by Gwen,” Robin called back.

  Mama and Theda and Shirley were speechless with amazement, but not Cary. As Robin started up the steps of the cabin, Cary crawled out from under it holding up his half-burned book. “You promised,” he said.

  A Mysterious Gift

  WHEN ROBIN WENT TO Bridget’s the next day, she had permission to go there. The evening before she had finally managed to talk it over with Dad; and just as she had expected, he had been very sympathetic. “Yes, I think that would be a very nice thing for you to do, Robin,” he said. “I’m glad you thought about it. Sometimes lately you’ve been too wrapped up in your own little world. You need to see that other people have problems, too.”

  So when Bridget asked Robin in for tea, she was able to say yes. The inside of the cottage was as unusual as the outside. A lean-to addition along the back was divided into a small entryway, a closet, and a small bathroom; but all the rest of the cottage was just one large room. The inside walls were paneled part way up with smooth dark wood. The paneling ended in a little ledge about as high as Robin’s head, and above that there was gray stone, just like the outside of the house. The windows swung out like little doors and were made up of dozens of tiny diamond-shaped panes set in dark metal frames. Because the stone walls were very thick, the window sills were deep and each sill held a potted plant or a vase of flowers. The floor of the cottage was also of stone, but years of walking and scrubbing had polished it to a marblelike smoothness. There was a fireplace with a deep hearth, a quilt-covered bed, a small iron stove, and a few chairs and tables. On the seat of a rocking chair near the fireplace Damon and Pythias were asleep, looking like a fat fur cushion.

  At Bridget’s request Robin carried some cups and saucers from a corner cupboard to a small round table near a front window. The cups had pansies and violets painted on them, and they were so thin that you could see the shadow of your fingers through the china. They were so pleasant to touch that Robin rearranged them several times on the white tablecloth, handling them very carefully. Then, while Bridget held the teapot, Robin worked the handle of the pump that was right on the end of the wooden sink board. She had seen pumps before, but always outdoors, never right inside the house.

  There were several other things to do while the water heated. Bridget filled dishes at the kitchen side of the room, and Robin carried them to the table. There was a tiny glass tray with a matching sugar bowl and cream pitcher on it, a plate of the fat dark cookies, a pink bowl full of dark red strawberries, and a pale blue china teapot with a looping wreath of white around it. Robin moved a small vase of pansies from a window sill to the center of the table. Behind the table the casement window was partly open on the garden, and the morning sunlight added patterns of light and shadow.

  “Look!” Robin said. “It looks like a painting.”

  “So it does,” Bridget said. “You’ve arranged it very nicely. Now if you’ll pour the water, we’ll be almost ready.”

  “I like your house,” Robin said when they were both seated at the table. “It’s different. It’s like pictures I’ve seen of houses in other countries—England, or maybe Scotland.”

  “Yes, it would look something like that,” Bridget said, “but as it happens, it’s an Irish house. At least, it was built by Irish workmen.”

  “By Irish workmen? Did they build Palmeras House, too?” Robin asked.

  “That’s quite a long story, and it goes a long way back. But I’ve heard a bit about it. You see, the present Mr. McCurdy’s grandfather was an Irishman who came to California during gold rush days. He found some gold—not much, but enough to buy a fine horse and some fancy clothes and have just a little left over. He was tired of the hard work of mining gold, and he’d heard that land was cheap and life was easy in the south. So he decided to go to Los Angeles and buy some land. But on the way his horse went lame.”

  Bridget paused, and Robin said, to hurry her on, “I’ll bet that happened right here. It must have!”

  “You’re right. It happened right here at Las Palmeras, which was one of the largest ranchos in this part of the state. It was granted by the Governor of Mexico to the Montoya family in 1829. One wing of Palmeras House was built not too long after that.”

  “Oh,” Robin said, “I saw it. It’s made of adobe.”

  “That’s right. And that’s where Donovan McCurdy stayed while he waited for his horse’s hoof to heal. Only he never got to Los Angeles.”

  “Why didn’t he? Did something happen to him?”

  “Yes, it did, but nothing bad. You see, the Montoyas had a beautiful young daughter. Her name was Guadalupe Maria Francesca Montoya, but her family sometimes called her Bonita. And Donovan and Guadalupe fell in love.”

  “Did they get married?” Robin asked.

  “Indeed they did, and that’s why Donovan never got to Los Angeles. After they had been married a few years, Guadalupe’s parents died and all of Las Palmeras belonged to her, and to Donovan. But even though Donovan loved California and Las Palmeras, at times he was homesick for Ireland. So when he decided to build a fine new house, he sent all the way to Ireland for carpenters and stonemasons. He planned his new home to look like a grand house that he had admired when he was a boy in Ireland. But because Guadalupe wanted to keep her old adobe home, it was left standing. So Palmeras House became part Spanish and part Irish, just like the McCurdy family.”

  “Did they have a big family?” Robin asked.

  “No, only two boys, Terrence and Francisco. Francisco was the present Mr. McCurdy’s father. And Terrence ... Bridget stopped to sip her tea, but when she put the cup down she didn’t go on. She sat quietly, her eyes blank and inward looking. Finally she smiled and said, “But this little cottage is all Irish. One of the Irish workmen stayed on at Las Palmeras to become the McCurdys’ gardener, and this was his home.”

  “But why don’t the McCurdys live in Palmeras House anymore?” Robin asked. “It’s such a beautiful house. I think it’s much nicer than their other one—the one they’re living in, I mean.”

  “That’s another long story, I’m afraid. You see, Mr. McCurdy, the present one, married a young lady whose father happens to be an architect who designs very modern buildings. A few years ago, her father made the plans for a fine modern home, which they built. That was when Palmeras House was boarded up.”

  “But why don’t they let someone else live in it if they don’t want to?” Robin asked. “Are they just going to leave it boarded up that way for ever and ever?”

  “I believe there are plans to make it into a museum someday,” Bridget said. “When the right t
ime comes. But I quite agree that it’s a shame to let it sit alone and empty for so long.”

  “You lived there once, didn’t you?” Robin asked.

  For a moment Bridget looked startled. Then she nodded slowly. “How did you know that?” she asked.

  “Well, yesterday, on the way home from here, I met Gwen McCurdy and she told me that you used to be her nurse. So if the McCurdys moved out of Palmeras House just a few years ago, you must have lived there when you were Gwen’s nurse.”

  “Oh, I see,” Bridget said. “Yes, I used to live there.”

  Robin sighed. “That must have been wonderful. Didn’t you just love living there? I know I would. Didn’t it make you feel ... She stopped suddenly, feeling embarrassed. Bridget was looking at her with a strange expression.

  “What is it about Palmeras House that you like so much?” Bridget asked.

  Robin looked down at her hands. She didn’t want to talk about it any more. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s so beautiful and it looks as if it had always been there and always would be ... I don’t know ...

  Bridget leaned over and patted her hand. “I quite understand.” she said. Her manner indicated that the subject was closed. “And so you met Miss Gwendolyn McCurdy. What did you two think of each other?”

  “Oh, she’s very nice,” Robin said. “She took me home on her horse.”

  “Really?” She must have liked you, then. Let’s see. Gwendolyn is twelve now. You’re not quite that old are you?”

  “I’m twelve, too. I’m just little for my age,” Robin said. “Does Gwendolyn come here to visit you?”

  “She used to come quite often when I first came here to live. But lately—well, she’s quite busy. But Don and Catherine visit me now and then, and Gwen usually comes with them.”