by Susan Albert
And all the while the captain was thinking, with rising irritation, that his sister Dimity would never have allowed both Elsa and the maid to go off on the same day, so by the time he located the tray and everything was on it, he was feeling thoroughly put-upon. Being a bachelor was all well and good, he reflected, as he shouldered open the kitchen door and carried the tray down the hall toward the library, and he certainly enjoyed his privacy. It was very pleasant to prop one’s stockinged feet on the fender on a cold winter evening whilst reading the newspaper, and gratifying to smoke an offensively odiferous cigar without being frowned upon. But he had to admit that there were certain matters—such as breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner, as well as collars and cuffs—that were not well managed unless they were managed under the careful supervision of the lady of the house.
The captain was still thinking these thoughts as he went into the library. “Sorry it took so long,” he said, with an apologetic smile at his guest. “I’m not accustomed to looking for things in the pantry and—”
But that was as far as he got in his explanation, for in placing the heavy tea tray on the library table, he misjudged its position (or was perhaps smiling at Miss Nash when he might better have been looking at what he was doing). He missed the table, just, and the tray tilted abruptly, taking the teapot with it, and the cups and saucers and spoons and sugar bowl, milk pitcher, and plate of biscuits, CRASH! in a shatter of china and cascade of tea and milk on the library floor—the wood floor, thankfully, and not the rug.
“Oh, blast!” the captain muttered, staring helplessly down at his trousers, which were gaily decorated with splashes of tea and milk, whilst the puddle grew all around him like a small ocean lapping at his boots, the biscuits like little brown rafts (they were chocolate), sailing on a sea of creamy foam. He was a dolt. He was a clown. He was a clumsy idiot.
“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Margaret. “Oh, my goodness gracious, I do so hope you’re not burnt!”
“No, no,” the captain said, touched that her first thought was for his welfare. “But I’ve certainly made a mess.”
“Not at all,” she replied. And then (over her shoulder, for she was already halfway to the library door), “Don’t move. I’ll just go and get a mop and some rags.”
Now, we may want to ask how it was that Margaret knew that the cleaning supplies were stored in the closet under the stairs. Or we may just assume that since everyone keeps their mops and buckets and dusters and cleaning rags in that particular closet, most women would look there first. (I would—and I daresay you would, too.)
In the event, Margaret went straight to the closet. When she came back to the library, she was carrying a mop in one hand and a bucket and several clean rags in the other. She set them down and rolled up her sleeves. Since she still had on her neat straw boater (with the pink velvet ribbons), she might have looked a bit incongruous, but as far as the captain was concerned, she looked like an angel. An angel of mercy, that is, bent on mercifully mopping up the mess he had made.
By this time, Miles had somewhat recovered his equanimity. Margaret wielded the mop and then got down on her knees to finish the job with a handful of rag. Wanting to show that he could be useful, he also got down on his knees and began picking up the smashed crockery pieces and putting them on the tray.
“There,” Margaret said, surveying their work with satisfaction. “Elsa will never know what happened—unless she misses her teapot. Although I must say, it isn’t the prettiest teapot I’ve ever seen.” She looked up at him and giggled.
We have known Captain Woodcock for—let’s see, how many books now? Six, is it? During the whole of our acquaintance with that gentleman, I don’t believe that we have ever found him to be seriously flustered. He is a man of cool and level head, who takes pride in knowing exactly what to do in every situation, whether it is dealing with an illegal gathering of badger-baiters or an angry man wielding a shotgun—or even a foundling baby that appears in his house as if by magic. He meets all with equanimity and a calm self-assurance.
But Margaret’s sweetly girlish giggle and her direct look completely undid him. Or perhaps it was the fact that she was kneeling beside him on the floor of his library, in her lovely pink-and-white crepe de chine blouse (although he couldn’t have told you what sort of blouse it was if his life depended on it) with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and that little curl of rich brown hair just in front of her pretty ear, and the sweet, soft scent of violets (the violet toilet water that Annie had given Margaret for Christmas and which she saved for very special occasions), and the depths—the mysterious, luminous depths—of her gray-green eyes, ravishingly long-lashed.
Well. Whatever it was, Captain Woodcock was suddenly robbed of the wit to ask himself what under the sun he was doing or why he was doing it or whether it was the right thing to do, which was a very good thing, in my estimation. Both the captain and the headmistress are thoroughly Victorian, although they are living in an Edwardian age, and neither often acted on impulse, especially where the heart was concerned. Which makes the present scene so delightfully surprising, to me and I hope to you and I am sure to Captain Woodcock and perhaps to Margaret as well. (I say “perhaps” because I am not entirely sure what she had in mind when she came calling, although I suspect that she didn’t, either.)
For once in his life, the captain was moved by a genuinely human impulse so strong and powerful that he could not resist it. Slowly, as if mesmerized by Margaret’s nearness, he put his hands on her shoulders, and then, bending toward her, kissed her on the mouth. His arms went around her and he felt her sway toward him and he drowned in her sweetness—
But only for an instant. I am sorry to tell you that the Victorian gentleman he was, top to stern and fore and aft, took control of the situation. He released her and wrenched himself violently away, rocking backward.
“Please forgive me, Miss Nash,” he exclaimed. “I am so very, very sorry! How can I ever—”
But if he had become the ultimate Victorian once more, Margaret, to her enduring credit, had not. She put out her hand and touched his cheek. “Nonsense,” she said very bravely, and smiled a tremulous smile, although her eyes—ah, those luminous gray-green eyes—were wet with tears. “I should like you to kiss me again, Captain Woodcock, if you please.”
Of course Captain Woodcock was pleased, very much pleased, to do as she asked. He was charmed, in fact: no lady had ever before asked him to kiss her in such an artlessly enchanting way. I suppose this was what won the captain’s heart, this simple, guileless request for a kiss. And because they were both on their knees beside the mop bucket, their kiss somehow seemed . . . well, even more innocent, perhaps.
And since what happened next is a very private and intimate thing between two grown-up people who do not go around indiscriminately kissing everyone they see, we will step away and leave them to their enjoyment of each other. A very proper enjoyment, I hasten to add, for while they were not exactly behaving as Victorians, their passion (which was quickly and mutually discovered, to the astonishment of both) was constrained within Victorian bounds. I daresay that even Victoria herself could not have been more pleased, especially when the captain heard himself murmuring, much to his own amazement, “Oh, my dear Miss Nash, my very dear Miss Nash. I have been so blind, such a complete and utter fool! I find—” He swallowed. “I find that I love you, that I have loved you for a very long time. Is it possible . . . May I hope . . . Can it be that you care for me?”
To which Margaret heard herself replying, with bewildered shock, “Oh, yes, Captain Woodcock. I do care, very much!”
At this point, I imagine our good queen (who was happily and romantically in love with her darling Albert, to whom she bore nine children in seventeen years) would have smiled her blessing and tactfully turned her back, so as not to embarrass her royal self or them. And so, my dears, shall we.
Well, of course we should—although I don’t mind saying that I am no Victorian, and neither are you. And since yo
u and I have watched people kissing in the movies and on television thousands of times, we are not embarrassed in the slightest by what is going on. So I shall linger behind to watch and listen and share the romantic pleasure, and if you don’t care to join me—well, I’m sorry.
The captain, entirely unable to be either sensible or rational and feeling himself quite out of his depth, took a deep gulp of air (exactly as if he were about to go down for the third time, which I suspect he was), and uttered those four words that have the potential to change one’s life forever. Of course, since he was the captain, and a Victorian, there were a few more than four words and he saved the most important until the very end.
“Miss Nash, I am sure this is appallingly precipitous, but I cannot wait another hour, another minute, another second. Can you find it in your heart to make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?”
Miss Nash’s cheeks were every bit as pink as her blouse, her eyes were wet and shining, and she had no words to waste. She whispered, sweetly and simply, “Yes. Yes, with all my heart.”
Which quite naturally leads, as it should, to another round of kissing and caressing and whispering. And if you think the captain’s marriage proposal is rushing things a bit, please remember that he and Miss Nash have been acquainted for going on a dozen years now, during which time they have lived in the same very small village, participated in the same parish activities, attended the same school celebrations, and dealt together (he as trustee, she as headmistress) with a myriad of problems concerning the school. Not to mention that Miss Nash has secretly dreamed of the captain for a great many years, and that the captain has resisted his sister’s earnest urgings that he should court Miss Nash for another good long time—although of course it could not happen until it was his idea, now, could it?
If I were waxing poetic (and isn’t a love scene just the place for a little poetry?), I might say that their regard for each other, astonishing as it is to them (and perhaps to us), is like a plant that grows quietly and contentedly in a dark corner of the parlor, until one day—when we had altogether forgotten that it was there and in fact have often neglected to water the poor thing—it surprises us with an incredibly lovely blossom. Love is like that, sometimes, I am glad to say, growing steadily along in secret, as it were, and then suddenly bursting forth like the sun coming out from behind a bank of gray clouds, where it has been all along, even though we couldn’t see it.
So. Now that they have finished kissing and saying, “Are you sure?” and “Yes, very sure. Are you?” and “More sure than I have ever been in my whole life,” we shall follow them to the kitchen, since both of them now feel very much in need of that cup of tea they didn’t get when the captain dropped the tea tray, and a very good thing that was, if you ask me. Margaret (whose hat had fallen into the mop bucket during the romantic interlude and had been rescued and brushed off by the captain) saw at once that the fire had sulked itself away to nothing, so the captain brought in some kindling and a bucket of coal, and it was not long before the fire was cheerful again and the kettle was hot and the tea properly brewed. In the meantime, Margaret wiped up the spilt milk on the kitchen table, sliced a loaf of fresh bread she found in (who would have thought?) the breadbox and a joint she located (quite reasonably) in the cooling cupboard, and put out butter, mustard, lettuce, and sliced onions. She also found two pieces of apple pie, which no doubt Elsa Grape had meant for the captain.
“Quite remarkable, Miss Nash,” Miles said as he sat down to his sandwich and pie, thinking how astonishingly changed was his situation since the last time he had visited his kitchen, less than a half hour before, and realizing that he was completely and entirely happy for the first time in his whole life. “Quite remarkable,” he said again, picking up his sandwich. (Whether he meant not having to go out for a pub lunch or his being in love with Miss Nash, I shall leave it to you to decide.)
“Margaret,” she said shyly, equally amazed at the way her life had changed—had completely turned upside-down and inside-out—just since she had walked through the front door. She handed him the mustard. “I should like you to call me Margaret, please.”
“Miles,” he said, and smiled at her, trying out “Miles and Margaret” in his mind a time or two and thinking that the names sounded very well together. Then he tried, “Mrs. Miles Woodcock,” and liked that just as much. Then his smile faded abruptly, for the captain was by nature a cautious man and had just remembered something he really ought to have thought of before he asked Miss Nash to be his wife. Not that he would object to her sister coming to live with them, since there was certainly room in the house, now that Dimity had married and left him. But still—
He put down his sandwich. “There is something we need to discuss.”
“You’re speaking of Annie, I suppose.” Margaret met his eyes without hesitation.
Miles felt a thrill at being so well understood. It spoke well for their future together. He reached out and put his hand over hers.
“I hope you don’t think I . . . Of course, your sister is welcome to live here with us. More than welcome. I just . . .” His voice trailed off. He pressed her hand and released it.
“Thank you.” Margaret began to butter her bread. “However,” she added in a careless tone, “it doesn’t look as though that will be necessary. Annie is strongly considering Brighton for the winter. If she likes it, perhaps she will stay.”
Brighton? Well, my goodness gracious. Are you surprised? I certainly am, and a bit put out, too. I mean, I had no idea that Margaret had already spoken to her sister about the situation at the sanitarium! I couldn’t have guessed that Annie had expressed an interest in trying it out, and perhaps even making it permanent. I had expected, since this seemed to be an important part of our story, that we would know about it so that we could listen in on their discussion. But now we discover that we have been deprived. Margaret and Annie have talked about this question behind our backs, as it were, not even letting us know that the subject was about to come up so that we could hurry over to Lakefield Cottages and listen in. I call that rude, I do. If I were in full charge of this story, it would certainly be better managed.
“To Brighton!” the captain exclaimed, every bit as surprised as we are.
Margaret put down her knife. “Miss Potter tells me that a friend of hers, a nurse, is opening a sanitarium there. She is looking for someone to help with the music therapy program.”
“Ah,” the captain said knowingly. “Miss Potter is in it, is she?” He’d had enough experience of Miss Potter to understand that when she saw a need for something to be done, it was generally done, in one way or another.
Margaret nodded. “Miss Potter suggested to me that Annie might be a suitable candidate, and I brought it up with her last night. I admit to being a bit surprised myself when she said she was interested.” (You see? We are all surprised!) “Actually, Annie was more than interested. She seems terribly enthusiastic about the idea of spending the winter where it is warm and seeing new sights and meeting new people. I think it is very brave of my sister to want to leave her home and go off on her own. And of course I want to support her in any way I can.”
Oh, but I can hear you now! You are saying, “Do come on, Miss Nash. Tell us the truth! You had that discussion with Annie last night, and you expected her to say no. You were shocked to hear that she was delighted to have the chance to leave you and make a new life somewhere else. In fact, it probably upset you dreadfully, since it meant that you were losing your sister and would have no one to care for—and no one to care for you, for the rest of your life, perhaps. And so this afternoon, you appear at Captain Woodcock’s door, wearing your smartest little hat and prettiest blouse and toilet water and spouting that tall tale about the school needing some sort of repair. And all the time you were hoping that he—”
But the repair really does need to be done, I assure you. Miss Nash (who taught the juniors) and the teacher of the infant class have been talking about it since the end
of the previous winter, when both the stovepipes proved to be far too smoky for everyone’s good, especially the children’s. And if a lady wishes to wear her favorite hat and gloves and blouse and dab on a bit of violet toilet water when she goes out to make a call, who are we to criticize? How often have you done the very same thing? And quite innocently, too, without any intention of making some poor hapless fellow fall in love with you.
Or perhaps you might wish to say, “Come now, Captain Woodcock, tell us the truth! Your cook-housekeeper has left you and the maid is off and it has been suddenly and forcefully brought to your attention that your house is in want of a mistress and that you are in want of a wife (collars and cuffs are a necessary thing in this world, after all). And here is Miss Nash on your doorstep, quite pretty in pink and very adroit with a mop. And your romantic passion suddenly overwhelms you, to the point where you are moved to ask her to marry you? Oh, come now, Captain. Let us be honest with each other. What you are after is a housekeeper.”
So you see? There are two sides to every story, especially a romance. And if Miss Nash needs someone to take her sister’s place in her heart and Captain Woodcock needs someone to take his sister’s place in his home . . . Well, perhaps there is a certain mutually beneficial symmetry here.
But there is also a compelling mutual need, and I for one am unwilling to find fault, especially since our two lovers seem to have the wish and the will and the wherewithal to make each other happy. There is more than enough sadness and loneliness in this world. A little love goes a very long way toward mending both.
Miles took charge of the situation. “My dear girl, of course we shall support Annie,” he said warmly, “financially, if you like. And if the sanitarium doesn’t suit, if Annie wants to come back to Sawrey—” He took a bite of his sandwich. “She will be welcome here,” he said with his mouth full.
