Amanda/Miranda

by Richard Peck

  The Wisewoman placed a gold-rimmed cup of black tea in the girl’s hand. She allowed the silence to lengthen while astonishing images of Mary’s future played across her inner eye.

  At last, bested by curiosity, Mary asked, “Is this a chemist shop, my lady?”

  The question brought the old woman back to earth. She paused a moment, choosing the words to describe her livelihood. “In a manner of speaking. Here there is folk medicine for those who mistrust doctors even more than they mistrust me. But why do you call me ‘my lady’?”

  Mary went pale with shame. “I—I was taught it was proper.”

  “You are a servant?” The Wisewoman was amazed, for her visions of the girl’s future foretold otherwise.

  “By nightfall I shall be,” Mary said softly. “At Nettlecombe.”

  “A servant speaks as you have done only where she is employed. You are not servant to all the world.”

  The idea, though meant kindly, was strange to Mary, almost meaningless.

  “And you will serve until you marry?”

  “I—I think I shall never marry, for my mother said—”

  “Oh yes! You shall marry twice,” said the Wisewoman. She’d been startled into telling the truth she’d foreseen.

  Mary thought her mistaken, even though the old woman’s knowledge hung heavily about them in this place.

  “I can divine the future,” the woman explained. “It is an uncertain gift, and I take no credit for it, nor any pay.”

  “And can you see more about my future?” asked Mary.

  After a silence an answer of sorts came. “I am addled by it—and by you. Your future lies a great deal farther off than Nettlecombe. It lies beyond a mountain of ice, where you will die and live again. I see you in a world so strange and distant that the images seem the trickery of a Gypsy’s false promises, even to me.”

  She broke off then, and the two sat motionless until the mantel clock struck noon. As if she’d heard her mother’s far-off cry, Mary rose. But at the cottage door the Wisewoman motioned her to wait while she disappeared back into the gloom. Returning, she pressed a cold disc into Mary’s hand. “It is for you,” said the woman, who had never given a gift. “Though it has no magic powers, I believe it should belong to you.”

  Mary stared down at a coin—foreign but not old. There was the face of some copper savage in worn relief on it. “I found it on the beach one day,” the Wisewoman said. “There were other things scattered in the sand, perhaps from a shipwreck. An American ship, I shouldn’t wonder, for it’s an American coin. Take it back.”

  Out in the sunshine, Mary turned just as the Wisewoman was closing the door. “When shall I meet the men I shall marry?” she asked, too shamed at her boldness to look up.

  “Why, tonight, of course. Both of them.” And then, as the Wisewoman watched Mary moving quickly away across the flagstones, almost in flight, she said, “Goodbye . . . Amanda.”

  But the Channel winds swept the name far out to sea.

  * * *

  A double row of black Italian pines threw long afternoon shadows across the approach to Whitwell Hall. In the great square salon where Lady Eleanor sat with the female members of her house party, the lamps were already lit.

  The ladies lingered over their tea, balancing the cups on silken knees, brushing a crumb of tea cake from the folds of their afternoon dresses. Conversation drifted in the last moments before they would have to go up and begin dressing for dinner. If one of them had risen from her chair and glanced out of the long window, she might have noted the Cookes’ crippled wagon being dragged over the gravel drive behind the ponderous horse.

  The house glowing at the top of the rise seemed vast to Mary, as if an entire village had been gathered neatly under a single roof. Even Mrs. Cooke caught her breath at its magnificence. To cover her awe, she barked at her husband, “Look sharp for a turning to the back of the house, Josiah! Have you no more sense than to fetch up at the front door?”

  To Mary she said nothing. She’d left the red marks of her fingers across her daughter’s cheek when the shiftless girl had finally returned from her noontime wandering.

  The tall columns of the front portico loomed above them before Josiah found the tradesmen’s lane forking to one side. It was hardly more than a slit in the high boxwood, and at once they were swallowed in the near night of the hedgerows. At the end the narrow way widened to a paved yard between the kitchen wing and a jumble of outbuildings. If Josiah’s ancient horse had been more alert, it would have shied at a motionless figure standing just off the lane in a gap between hedge and stables.

  John Thorne had stood for some time while the shadows crept over him, darkening all but the glints in his straw-blond hair. Only his hands moved as he rubbed with a rag at the grease embedded in his calloused palms. His mind was elsewhere. He stared up at a pair of windows high in the great house, far above the servants’ domain. He’d watched reflected sunset wash them red, then purple. And still he stood until another servant would draw the curtains of Miss Amanda Whitwell’s room.

  The young man had spent the day demolishing the old barn doors on the stable wing. Tomorrow meant hanging the new modern doors he’d paneled himself. The stables were being refitted for the Whitwells’ new motorcar. No favorite in the servants’ hall, John Thorne was a valuable craftsman who repaired and maintained Whitwell Hall as if every splinter and stone were his own. Now he was to be promoted to chauffeur-mechanic when the new car arrived.

  His territory ceased at the kitchen yard. But it stretched back to the outbuildings and the pastures of the home farm to the distant cottage in the grove. He’d been born there before the Whitwells had come.

  Just as the curtains on Amanda Whitwell’s window were drawn by the invisible hands of one Mrs. Buckle, the Cookes’ wagon crunched past the motionless man. Something came over Mary then. Something made her glance back. But she saw only the shadow of a man.

  The quiet grounds gave no hint of the bustle inside the house as the dinner hour approached. In the dining room a pair of gaitered footmen, hired for the occasion, hovered over a table set for twenty-four in a blaze of silver and French crystal.

  The fanning door to the serving pantry suggested the storm brewing below stairs. The serving maids, Hilda and Hannah and Betty, in caps like overstarched toadstools, rustled past one another.

  Below, Mrs. Creeth, the cook and empress of the kitchen, was locking horns—not for the first time—with Mrs. Buckle, the housekeeper, whose influence ceased at the door between family and staff. But Mrs. Buckle, whose accents grew hideously refined in her encounters with the lesser servants, had invaded enemy territory at its busiest hour. Now she and Mrs. Creeth stood, each gripping a handle of the same silver tray.

  “Give it over, if you please, Mrs. Buckle!” Mrs. Creeth shrieked. “There’ll be no catering to imaginary invalids until Sir Timothy and Lady Eleanor’s guests have ate and drunk their fill!”

  White with rage, Mrs. Buckle twisted the tray from the cook’s grasp. It swung down to rap her own bony knees. “I haven’t any intention of disrupting your culinary efforts,” she said, “for I know how very difficult it is for you, Mrs. Creeth, to manage even an ordinary dinner . . . at your age.”

  The words fell on Mrs. Creeth like an ether-soaked rag. She fell back, and Mrs. Buckle swept past her to the stove, where she began to coddle an egg and toast a slice of bread for Amanda Whitwell.

  Arranging the bland meal on the elaborate tray, the housekeeper sighed. “Poor Miss Amanda, who has hardly known a well day in all her young life. Who would care for her few needs if not her dear old Buckle, who was nurse and nanny to her.”

  “Just how sick is Miss Amanda this time?” the cook demanded.

  But this rude intrusion was ignored. With maddening calm, Mrs. Buckle turned to Mrs. Creeth and said, “Would you be good enough to locate a silver vase and one perfect rosebud before I take this tray upstairs?”

  Mrs. Creeth’s lips parted dangerously. But there
was a knock at the outside door. Whirling, Mrs. Creeth howled at Betty. “You, girl! See who’s at the door!”

  Betty made a careful circle around the two women and pulled the door open. There stood Mrs. Cooke and Mary, who carried a small wicker satchel.

  Mrs. Cooke took in the scene at a glance. “Where is Mr. Finley?” she demanded in a ringing voice.

  At that moment the mighty Mr. Finley, butler above and dictator below, entered. He noted that Mrs. Creeth and Mrs. Buckle were standing nearer one another than was good for either of them. “Ah, Mrs. Cooke, is it not?” he said, advancing to the door.

  Mary longed to run then, back to the wagon and her father. But Mr. Finley never glanced at her. He was saying to her mother, “I see you have brought the girl. She is sensible and literate, is she not?”

  Mary noticed that Mr. Finley’s left nostril vibrated as if it detected a repulsive odor, while the other refused to become involved.

  “She is,” Mrs. Cooke hastened to say, “trained by me, who once personally attended Lady—”

  “Yes, yes, I have no doubt. You have provided her with aprons in good repair and one suitable costume for her afternoon off, if she is granted one?”

  “I have,” Mrs. Cooke vowed. “The very aprons I myself—”

  “Yes.” Mr. Finley spoke as a man whose most pressing duties lay elsewhere. But when he finally deigned to look at Mary, he blinked, almost in a baffled kind of recognition. “What are you called?” he asked, after a troubled moment.

  “Mary, sir,” she murmured, bobbing from the knee.

  “Yes. Sensible,” he said. “You will find that—”

  A cymbal crash and an inhuman howl deafened the kitchen. The battle of wills between Mrs. Buckle and Mrs. Creeth had gone beyond words. Mrs. Buckle had begun her own search for a bud vase in the cupboards above. Mrs. Creeth’s hand, sudden as a snake striking, overbalanced the tray on the counter, sending it crashing to the floor.

  Weeks of Mrs. Buckle’s accumulated dignity lay in ruins at her feet. “Daughter of the devil!” she screamed at Mrs. Creeth.

  “Enough!” Mr. Finley barked. “Mrs. Buckle, I am astonished at your outburst. Prepare another tray, but you are in no fit state to take it up. You, Mary”—he turned to the girl at the door—“take up Miss Amanda’s tray.” Mary’s mother nudged her sharply.

  “Betty.” Mr. Finley snapped a finger. “Fetch one of our aprons and a cap and show the new girl how they are worn.”

  As Mary stepped forward to obey, her mother stepped backward into the yard. Mr. Finley closed the door firmly, cutting Mary off from all she’d ever known.

  * * *

  Amanda Whitwell of Whitwell Hall lay in the center of an oak bed as big as a barge. She was gazing into a hand mirror, enthralled with herself.

  Black hair haloed her face in wildly tossed ringlets. She’d powdered her face lightly, artfully. And she thought it a pity she never rouged her lips. Leaving it off now would make her look more like an interesting invalid.

  Amanda studied the violet-blue eyes that returned her look. There was a certain sharpness in those eyes that nearly gave her away. But she knew how to soften her gaze. She only had to think of the one man in her world who could almost make her forget all trickery. Her eyes grew dreamy, and she seemed to regain the innocence she’d so gladly lost.

  Her healthy complexion glowed softly through the white powder. Searching for flaws, she found none. Almost none. There was the odd little half-moon scar that faintly divided her right eyebrow. Three and a half years before, when she was just fifteen, a docile mare named Sapphire had forgotten its manners and shrugged her off. She’d fallen onto pillow-soft ground, but a small, sharp stone had neatly split her eyebrow in two.

  Lady Eleanor had shuddered at how near her daughter had come to being blinded. And the stable door was forever closed to Amanda, much to her relief, for she preferred the comfort of the new motorcars.

  A hesitant knock at the door brought her around. She was used to Mrs. Buckle’s sudden entries. Surprised, Amanda hid the mirror. “John?” she called out before she thought. But it was Mary who entered, balancing a silver tray, now slightly bent.

  Mary’s eyes widened at the room and at the fire burning heartily below a marble mantel. The idea of a warm bedroom was beyond her imaginings. And the girl in the elegant bed seemed someone from a fairy tale.

  “Please, miss, your supper tray.”

  “Well, bring it along, then,” Amanda Whitwell said, but then she stared as Mary drew closer. It was a look of naked surprise, such as Mr. Finley had registered. “Put down the tray and take off your cap!”

  Wondering, Mary swept off the cap.

  “Yes,” Amanda mused, “even the same black hair, though better controlled than mine. You don’t dye it, do you?”

  “Oh no, miss,” Mary said, confused.

  “Finley dyes his hair,” Amanda said. “In his natural state he’s as gray as an old rat, I should think. Move the tray closer. What have we here?” Amanda removed a silver cover. “I believe the kitchen is taking the invalid at her word. Who are you?” she said abruptly.

  “Mary Cooke, miss.”

  “That won’t do at all. Quite unsuitable. Mary is too ordinary. And the alternative is to call you Cooke, which would suggest Mrs. Creeth. What shall I call you?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure, miss.”

  “Miranda, I think. Yes, Miranda and Amanda. They go nicely together. Would that suit you?”

  “I suppose so, miss.”

  “And so it should. There is a Miranda in The Tempest. You know, Shakespeare’s play. Miranda is a beautiful heroine, so the matter is decided. Why isn’t everything so easy to arrange?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, miss.” She thought about that. “I suppose everything comes right if we put forth our best efforts.”

  “Oh, dear, how hearty that sounds.” Amanda ran the back of her small hand across her forehead. “I do hope you’re not too hearty. I have a rather robust friend, and she tires me terribly.”

  Mary was far out of her depth. She herself had learned a scrap of Shakespeare, but had never heard it brought into conversation. She’d have almost preferred being back in the battlefield of the kitchens.

  “You may sit on the bed while I eat, Miranda.”

  “Oh no, miss,” Mary said, shocked. “I couldn’t.”

  “It’s obvious that you’ve been taught to obey. Do so.”

  Mary lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and didn’t know where to look while Amanda wolfed down her small meal.

  “I would sell my soul for a wedge of Camembert!” Amanda said.

  “Then you’re feeling better, Miss Amanda. Shall I slip down to the pantry and bring a plate of—”

  “No, no,” Amanda said. “I’ll play out my hand. You haven’t the least notion of what’s going on, do you?”

  “No, miss.” Without meaning to, Mary stared into eyes precisely the same shade as her own.

  “I am having a temper tantrum, and the rather complicated reason is that—”

  “You, Mary! On your feet! The idea!” Mrs. Buckle had made a swift and silent entry. Mary leaped from the bedside.

  “Where is your cap, you wicked wanton? To the kitchens, and be quick!” Mrs. Buckle commanded.

  “No, she will remain with me,” Amanda said in a small, steely voice.

  “She’ll do nothing of the kind! I won’t have this sort of familiarity in—”

  “Mrs. Buckle, if she lives another ninety years, she will never equal your familiarity. Yes, I know you nursed and nannied and nagged me from the first. When I’m feeling myself again, I shall remember to be grateful. Until then, please leave Miranda with me.”

  “And who might Miranda be?” Mrs. Buckle bristled. This young maid already threatened her position with Miss Amanda.

  “I’ve renamed the new servant. I trust you have no objections.”

  Mrs. Buckle smoothed her gray silk front and pursed her lips. “I’m sure my
objections would carry very little weight when you are in one of your willful moods, Miss Amanda.”

  “Right as usual, dear old Buckle. So you may go. I won’t be needing you tonight. And do try not to make Miranda’s life a torment simply on my account.”

  “Well, really! As if I would!” said Buckle, withdrawing with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Such an old trout,” Amanda said in a ringing voice before the door had quite closed.

  “Oh, miss,” Mary said, working her hands.

  “Yes, a bad beginning, I know. But with Buckle, there is no other kind. You may have noticed that I am easily as willful as Buckle claims. But I am quite nice until someone crosses me. Then I tend to lash out. Oh, do sit down again!”

  Mary/Miranda settled uneasily on the edge of the bed again. She could hardly think, though her mind was quicker than anyone had ever noticed. Amanda was odd, but Mary found herself cautiously drawn to the girl, who seemed very commanding for someone so young. Then Mary noticed the white powder dusted over the innocent-seeming face. It wasn’t her place to notice, but Amanda left her little time to consider.

  “Have the men returned from Cowes?” she asked. “They went to look at a yacht someone wants to buy. I hate boats, don’t you?”

  “I couldn’t say, Miss Amanda. I’ve never been on a boat.”

  “But surely you’ve crossed to the mainland on the ferry?”

  “Oh, never, miss.” Mary’s eyes grew round. “I’ve never been off the Isle. Where would I have gone?”

  None of the maids—Hilda or Hannah or Betty—had ever been off the Isle of Wight. Only the embattled Buckle and Creeth moved back and forth with the Whitwell family to London.

  This sudden glimpse of the bondage of the lower servants unnerved Amanda. She chose not to think about it, saying, “You have not been here long?”

  “I only just came, miss.”

  “Then you haven’t met . . . everybody?”

  “No, miss.”

  Amanda came to a small, satisfying decision. “I think I shall want you for my own personal maid. You’ll be quite useful to me. After all, I am to have a London Season next summer—if I don’t marry first. And we shall certainly be going up to London in November for the Little Season. I’ll need more than old Buckle to keep track of my clothes after I’ve danced until dawn.”