He had expected Sarahʼs facial expression to be furious, devilish even. But when she reached the landing where he was now standing, he saw that she looked far from angry. Instead, tears were running down her face, and all that lay in her tear-filled eyes was sadness. She was sobbing heavily, and he was certain that he had never seen someone being so devastated and tortured in his whole life apart from his own mother on the day his father had died in her arms. Never ever since his arrival at the mansion it had become so obvious to him that this girl was in fact in no need of a cane or hazelnut rod but rather of a hug and a shoulder to cry on. Henry wondered if anyone in her family had ever made an effort to find out about her innermost feelings and desires; if anyone had ever comforted her when she was sad; if anyone had ever told her that she was beautiful.
When Sarah noticed Henry, she momentarily stood rooted to the spot, but then she just kept tumbling up the stairs in direction of the next floor where her room lay.
“Sarah...” Henry said softly. But she was just rushing past him, ashamedly covering her face. He extended his hand in an attempt to grab her arm and bring her to a halt. His fingers had already got hold of her wrist and squeezed it gently, when something happened that Henry had seen coming practically every single day he had spent in the mansion so far: In his dreadful visions he had seen the huge and expensive-looking vase on the pedestal, which decorated the stairwell, falling down and breaking apart. He had always felt that this vase was just waiting for the moment of someone unfortunate to walk by and knock it off by accident.
And now, this very moment had come when Sarah—angry because of Henryʼs fingers around her wrist—whirled around, broke free from his grip with a sweeping gesture, and hit the vase with her elbow. The precious china fell off the pedestal and crashed down to the ground, bursting into a thousand little pieces. The sound of its impact echoed through the house, and it was as if one had decided to take the whole lot of the crockery which could be found within the mansion walls and smash it in one go—and Lady Partridgeʼs highly treasured tableware consisted of at least a hundred plates and cups.
Henry expected Sarah to turn around and run for it, leaving him with the mess and maybe even being so rude as to claim that he himself was responsible for all the damage caused.
But she did none of it. Quite contrary she stood absolutely still, incredulously staring at the broken pieces of china at her feet, a horror-stricken expression on her face.
“Oh my goodness…” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I did not mean for this to happen…”
“Sarah?! What in the name of God is going on?” Henry heard Lady Partridge scream downstairs in the parlor. The next moment, she came running up the stairs.
Henry noticed tears welling up in Sarahʼs eyes, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed with sympathy for the girl whose despair and regret seemed so genuine to him that he swore to himself he would never trust his own judgment anymore if he erred regarding her sincerity.
“Miss Sarah, please donʼt cry,” he whispered softly. Sarah slowly raised her head and looked at him out of pitiful eyes.
“Do not say a word,” he added. “Just let me do the talking.”
Sarah cast him a questioning glance but then nodded quietly. She had become so pale that Henry almost feared she would faint.
But instead it was Lady Partridge who actually fainted when she arrived at the landing and realized what had happened. Henry gathered that the vase had been an heirloom, or that it at least had been rather valuable—although he couldnʼt really see why someone would want to pay a lot of money for it or shed so many tears over it, as he himself had found the vase rather ugly.
Letting out a faint whimper, Lady Partridge slowly sank to the ground. Henry rushed over to her in order to soften her fall. Then he held her in his arms, fanning her with his hand, until Lord Partridge equally came running up the stairs, alarmed by the noise.
He didnʼt speak as his glance was darting between Henry, Sarah, his wife, and the broken vase on the floor. Sarah, still frozen with shock, didnʼt move and was only staring bewildered at the porcelain, as if she hoped that by doing so she would be able to join the pieces back together again.
“I am so sor—” she began, but Henry quickly cut her off.
“Lord Partridge,” he began whilst handing him Lady Partridge, who gradually regained consciousness, “I can assure you that this is not Miss Sarahʼs fault.”
“What are you talking about, young man?” Lord Partridge barked.
“Well, what I mean is that it was in fact myself who kicked the vase. I just happened to walk along the corridor when I saw Miss Sarah on her way to the upper floor. I then decided, however, to return to my room because I had forgotten my books there. And when I turned around—maybe a little bit too quickly—I accidentally kicked the vase off the pedestal with my elbow. I am utterly sorry about this incident and will most definitely pay for the damage.”
Lord Partridge eyed him up and down as he was carefully considering if he should believe Henry or not.
“Well, I am quite sure you will not live long enough to earn the amount of money this vase was worth... Anyway, it obviously was an accident. There is nothing we can do about it,” the lord mumbled.
With relief, Henry noticed that Lord Partridge seemed to have softened a little bit, whereas Lady Partridge was still trembling and holding on to the banister.
“Oscar... someone must go and call Oscar...” she croaked.
“Of course, my dear,” Lord Partridge replied matter-of-factly, padding her hand in a weak attempt to comfort her. Then he turned to Sarah again.
“Sarah, I still want you to go up to your room and stay there for the rest of the day. Take it as a reminder for the future to move about the house like a lady and not like a hysterical bull. Actually, it should have been Mr. Abbottʼs task to teach you that.”
Lord Partridge cast Henry a reproachful glance while Sarah was silently creeping up the stairs.
“I will most definitely take care of this from next week on,” Henry replied, bowing slightly in front of the man whose anger he had so miraculously managed to soothe.
“Good,” Lord Partridge said. Then he supported his wife as she was staggering down the stairs.
Henry let out a sigh. It was then that he noticed that Sarah was standing on the landing of the upper floor, looking down at him. When their eyes met, a small grateful smile blossomed on her lips. It was the first time that Henry saw her smile ever since he had set foot in the Partridgesʼ house.
He didnʼt have a chance to smile back at her, though, as the next moment, Sarah turned around and quickly disappeared in the darkness of the corridor.
* * *
Sarah wasnʼt present during dinner because Lord Partridge had confined her to her room.
Henry wondered if she had recovered from the fright which she had got in the afternoon. The memory of her tear-filled eyes and the bewildered expression on her face simply wouldnʼt leave him; just as the memory of her first genuine smile.
Lady Partridge wasnʼt quite herself either. Still shaken by the loss of her vase, she hardly ate and was only surly staring at the plate in front of her, trying to keep her composure. After some twenty minutes, she stopped eating altogether and withdrew to her room.
Shortly afterwards, her brother, Dr. Oscar Scott, arrived.
“Good evening, everyone,” he merrily called over to Henry and Lord Partridge as he was passing by the open door to the dining room.
“Do join us for dinner once you have looked after my wife,” Lord Partridge said to him. “You might as well eat her portion since she has left all the food untouched. What a terrible waste...”
Dr. Scott nodded and disappeared upstairs.
After a little while when he returned, he took a seat next to Henry and didnʼt hesitate to straight away plunge into the delicacies laid out in front of him.
Henry was honestly relieved to see the doctor. He considered him as very nice company and found that hi
s presence lightened up even the most miserable atmosphere because he simply wasnʼt as stiff and controlled as the others. Somehow, however, Henry could not shake off the feeling that Lord Partridge didnʼt like his brother-in-law to the same extent and guessed that it was because Dr. Scott often offended against social etiquette by never mincing his words and by making remarks that Lord Partridge considered as ʻinappropriate.ʼ Still, Lord Partridge would neither complain nor banish him from the house. Henry assumed that Lord Partridge tolerated Dr. Scottʼs presence because the doctor helped battered Lady Partridge to lead a somewhat normal life.
“Is she feeling any better?” Lord Partridge asked without looking up from his plate.
“Sound asleep. I gave her a sedative,” the doctor answered, shoving a forkful of mince pie into his mouth without having concerns about coming across as rather hedonistic. “Which vase was it anyway?”
“Countess Montgomeryʼs gift for our twentieth wedding anniversary,” Lord Partridge said flatly.
“The one with that horrible pattern of lilac pansies and cherubs?!”
Dr. Scott broke out in chuckles, whereas Lord Partridge sneered at this remark.
“It was in fact a quite costly and unique specimen. But I do not expect you to know anything about these kinds of things. I do, however, agree that its style was a little bit over-ornate because of the cherubs.”
Hearing that the vase had originally been a wedding present, it became clear to Henry why Lady Partridge had overreacted. It had not been about the vaseʼs value alone. If Lady Partridge was in any way susceptible to superstition, she surely saw the incident as a bad omen for her marriage, which was in pieces anyway.
“Tell me, Mr. Abbott, would you care to come with me to London for the weekend?” Dr. Scott suddenly asked.
Henry was overjoyed at this offer. For the past hours he had been wondering how he could possibly spend the weekend in the mansion with nothing in particular to do but sit in Thelmaʼs kitchen; and he gradually began to worry that he went on the good womanʼs nerves. The idea of going to London had already crossed his own mind.
“I would love to, actually,” Henry replied.
“Wonderful!” the doctor exclaimed. “I would be more than delighted if you came. I am sure we will have a jolly good time. Apart from that, I find it truly boring to spend hours on a train with no one to speak to. And it is even worse if you have to share your compartment with folks that are eager to speak to you but that you would rather like to avoid because they talk a load of rubbish—or smell.”
The two men broke out in laughter.
“Have you ever been to Bournemouth, Mr. Abbott?” Lord Partridge suddenly asked in an obvious attempt to strike a more serious note. “It is particularly nice during this time of the year. The air is still a little bit crispy and not too hot.”
“No, Lord Partridge, I havenʼt had the pleasure yet,” Henry answered. He didnʼt really care about the weather in Bournemouth. All he thought about was going back to London for a while; just to get away from the oppressive atmosphere in the mansion.
Although he could feel Oscarʼs eagerness to keep talking to him even after Roderick and Emily had cleared the table, Henry excused himself and went to his room. He wanted to have an early night so that he would be refreshed and sharp the next morning. But as soon as he had lain down in bed, he began to toss and turn, unable to find the so much desired sleep.
He got up again and opened the window, hoping that a little bit of cool air from outside would make him tired. But the air wasnʼt cool at all and turned out to be quite muggy instead.
Apart from that, the owl was crying again. Henry had already noticed the bird on his very first night in the mansion. It had sat on a branch of a nearby tree, cheekily peering into his room and crying for hours. And it had kept coming back ever since.
"Shush! Go away or keep quiet..." Henry hissed. But the little owl was rather unimpressed by his attempt to chase it away.
The sultriness and the nasty owl had the undesired effect that Henry felt even more awake now.
With a sigh, he slipped back into his clothes. Then he grabbed a candle, left his room, and in the semi-darkness trudged along the corridor and downstairs to the basement.
Having been a regular guest in Thelmaʼs kitchen, he knew very well where the door to the wine cellar was—next to the broom cupboard; unlocked. He rummaged through the shelves, came across the bottle that had not been emptied during dinner, and then went in search of a glass in the adjacent kitchen. Equipped with both bottle and glass, he climbed up the stairs again.
He didnʼt go straight back to his room, however. Instead he slowly opened the door to the library, careful not to make any noise. Then he walked over to the window, opened the bottle of wine and filled the glass. Upon taking a first sip, he felt how his muscles relaxed and his spirits returned. He leaned against the window frame, peered out into the night and began to reflect on his life.
He had to admit to himself that he obviously had had a misconception about living and working in a mansion, amidst the upper class. He found that it wasnʼt as appealing as he had always thought. Family life was strict and lacked the warmth which he himself had experienced when growing up. Not that his father had always been kind, especially not after coming home from a long day at work, or when he had drunk. But Henry had always sensed that deep in his heart, his father had been a good man who had truly cared for the well-being of his wife and his children. Otherwise he would have never committed himself to such a degree to his mining job which he had hated so much.
Apart from that, it had never ever played such an important role in Henryʼs family what other people thought. And never ever would it have crossed either his fatherʼs or his motherʼs mind to make Henry marry someone whom he did not love. As for work, they might not really have supported his ʻfoolish visionʼ of becoming a teacher on the outset—for the mere reason that they had believed this was a rather lofty thought. But in the end, when Henry had proved to be excellent at teaching, they had been proud of him. Yes, his parents had always backed their children.
Henry was unable to tell if the superficial demeanor of the Partridges applied to all the other upper class households as well. But ultimately, he wasnʼt keen on finding out and considered his experience in one family of that kind as enough to last for a lifetime. He wouldnʼt apply for a similar position elsewhere.
As for the Partridges and the problems with their daughter, Henry decided that Sarah wasnʼt the only one to be blamed. He agreed that she surely wasnʼt easy to deal with, but Henry wondered up to what degree the rest of the family had contributed to the fact that she reacted the way she did.
Henry suddenly regretted that he had quit his secure position at elementary school. He missed his colleagues and the pupils. For a fleeting moment, it crossed his mind to return to London and ask Mr. Lambert to employ him again, but he immediately dismissed the thought. He didnʼt want to ʻeat humble pieʼ and found that it would be rather silly if he had to admit in front of the headmaster that his desire to rise the ladder had not worked out. He would most certainly become an object of ridicule. No, he was quite certain that going back wasnʼt an option for him.
America.
He had always wanted to go there. Despite the fact that he didnʼt have the slightest notion of what exactly he would find there or if he would make his luck at all, he had always been fascinated by the idea of following into the footsteps of his brother Paul who, at a very early age, had decided to board the next available ship and leave his hometown for good. He kept writing letters to Henry, telling him about his life. And in every letter he reminded Henry about his long-lost dream and encouraged him to pack his bags as well, to leave it all behind and even bring their mother along. Paul claimed he was positive that Henry would find work in no time.
Henry might have been a little daredevil in his eager mission to become a teacher, but so far he had not had the courage to do something as courageous as leaving his home country for goo
d. Furthermore, he wasnʼt sure at all whether he would be able to convince his mother to leave London and move to America, too. After all, she had always been of the opinion that old people should stay in their familiar surroundings even though she was not yet that old.
Letting out a sigh, Henry looked up at the stars and took another sip of the wine.
Then he saw the piano in the corner. He had always loved the smooth elegance of the instrument, had loved the way it felt to let oneʼs fingers slide over the keys. Mr. Batton, the music teacher at elementary school where Henry had been employed, had given him piano lessons. In return Henry had given Mr. Battonʼs son some private English tuition. Henryʼs ability to play the piano could not really be called out of the ordinary, but it was enough to play the odd tune every now and then whenever the whim took him. Quite often he had sneaked into the schoolʼs music room after lessons when nobody had been around, and had practiced a little bit. And although the piano at school had been a very old-fashioned model and annoyingly out of tune, Henry had always been completely immersed in the music upon playing.
Henry & Sarah Page 7