King Devil

by Charlotte MacLeod

  The estimate went on for three pages. She had to stop only twice for erasures, apologizing profusely each time. Clinton had the grace to growl, “Forget it. You’re doing fine.” When she handed over the tidy sheaf for his signatures, he almost purred.

  “Miss Tabard, you’re the kind of girl a man could love.”

  “Even if he knew it’s her guardian and not herself who has the money?” she snapped back. “Good afternoon, Mr. Clinton.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tabard, and if your guardian ever heaves you out in the cold on account of your rotten disposition, come and see me about a job.”

  Lavinia stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide. “Mr. Clinton, you—you couldn’t possibly mean that, could you?”

  “Why? Have I insulted Your Majesty?”

  “Oh, no! But I have no proper training.”

  “Neither did any of the other six girls I’ve fired in the past seven years. At least you can spell.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m really a good speller,” she said eagerly. Then she wet her lips and took the plunge. “If you honestly think I can be of any help, I’d be glad to come tomorrow.”

  “How early?”

  “Why, whenever you want me, I expect. I have nothing else to do, and we’re usually through breakfast by half-past nine or so. Would that be all right?”

  The young man’s lips twitched into something that might almost have been a smile. “I’ll be here a little before then, I expect. I daresay I could crochet a doily for your chair while I’m waiting.”

  “Yes, why don’t you do that?”

  Lavinia sailed out of the drafting room with her nose in the air and her feet on a gorgeous pink cloud of joy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  This time, Lavinia managed to get through the kitchen without being caught. From the merriment in the parlor, she judged that nobody was missing her. She didn’t care. Tomorrow, she was going to work.

  Because she was so happy, Lavinia took special pains with her hair and put on an attractive green poplin frock instead of just a fresh shirtwaist. She wasn’t dressing up for Athelney; she assumed he would have left by the time she joined the ladies. Entering the parlor half an hour later, though, she found him still there, bowing and smiling, quite at home.

  “Oh, there you are, Lavvy!”

  Zilpha was in high spirits. “Roland has been telling us how gallantly you came to the rescue in his office.”

  “Has he told you how he saved your rubbing from probable destruction with his magical fixatif?”

  “No,” crowed Miss Tabard, “he was much too modest. How wonderful of you, Roland! Now you must positively stay and take pot luck with us at dinner. Just think, Lavvy, Tetsy and I have discovered that Roland’s mother is a connection of her Aunt Emily’s people, who were also related to the Tabards through Melinda Mull’s marriage to Great-Grandfather Bronson, as you of course know.”

  “How interesting,” said Lavinia.

  What really intrigued her was the “Roland.” By sending Athelney down here with the rubbing, she’d done herself an even better turn than she realized. Zilpha and Tetsy couldn’t possibly object to her doing some typewriting for a member of the tribe, especially one who had so quickly made his way into their good graces.

  Lavinia found that she didn’t have to bother making polite conversation tonight. Both the older women were absorbed in their new young man. Roland did add a decorative note, no question about that, with the candlelight flickering over his well-chiseled features and picking out romantic highlights in his wavy dark hair. In correct evening clothes, he’d be an absolute smasher. Before long, Zilpha would be planning a few dinners with her and Tetsy’s new-found kinsman as an extra attraction.

  Of course it was too much to hope that Miss Mull would let her get through her entire dinner in peace.

  “You’re duller than usual tonight, Lav. Cat got your tongue?”

  Now was as good a chance as any.

  “I’m not sure it’s my place to speak,” Lavinia replied. “Is it good form, Mr. Athelney, for a typewriting girl to be dining at the same table as her employer?”

  “I should say it’s entirely in order under the circumstances,” he replied with one of those devastating shy smiles. “How did you manage with Hay, Lavinia?”

  So it was Lavinia now. To be sure, Miss Tabard and Miss Tabard did sound a bit silly. Anyway, it was clear that for him there was only one Miss Tabard. She picked up the cue.

  “He was no end impressed, Roland. He even says I may come and typewrite for you again tomorrow.”

  “Would you really?” cried the young man. “That’s bully!”

  “Why, Lavvy, dear,” said her guardian, “we had no idea you were so proficient. Where did you acquire this remarkable knowledge of typewriting machines?”

  Zilpha was stalling for time, and Lavinia knew why. She crossed her fingers under the table and made her explanation.

  “Miss Plomm used to let me do some of her correspondence. Did I not tell you that Jennie Bolter’s father presented one of his new models to her for her office? You know how Miss Plomm was always urging the students to acquire new skills.”

  “Miss Plomm has the true spirit of the time. I think that is an excellent idea, Lavvy.”

  Zilpha had exchanged the slightest of glances with her companion and received the barest flicker of an eyelid in reply. So it was settled. The ladies had made up their minds that Roland would do.

  They had it all wrong, but that didn’t matter. They thought the green frock and the enthusiasm about helping in the drafting room meant Lavvy had set her cap for Athelney. They couldn’t think that a struggling architect in a country town was any great catch for a Tabard, but they no doubt assumed he was about the best Minnie’s daughter had any chance of landing; and if she didn’t get somebody pretty soon, they might have her on their hands forever. Lavinia didn’t care what they thought, she only hoped their matchmaking wouldn’t get too heavy-handed and embarrass her with the partners.

  Certainly they didn’t lose any time getting started. An opening occurred as Tetsy got up to remove the dessert plates.

  “Excuse me, everybody. I’m the dishwasher tonight.”

  “Isn’t Mrs. Smith coming?” Lavinia asked in surprise.

  “No, there’s some kind of band concert down in the village, and she was bound and determined to take Peter. He likes music, she claims.”

  “Oh, how vexing,” Lavinia fumed. She’d made up her mind to show Mrs. Smith the second rubbing and watch her reaction to the missing date.

  Zilpha rebuked her gently. “Lavvy, dearest, they have so few pleasures.”

  “The band concerts are sort of fun,” said Roland. “I don’t suppose they’re anything compared to what you have in Boston, but they hang Japanese lanterns around in the trees and people take cushions and carriage robes and sit around on the grass.”

  “Lavvy would adore that,” cried Zilpha. “Wouldn’t you, dearest? I’m afraid we old ladies wouldn’t dare risk the damp, but since Roland is a family connection, I can’t see why it’s not perfectly proper for you young folks to run off and enjoy yourselves. Don’t you agree, Tetsy?”

  Tetsy agreed, with a shade too much enthusiasm. Roland expressed properly modified rapture. All Lavinia got to say was, “I’ll fetch a wrap.”

  “Take my green Worth cloak,” lilted Miss Tabard.

  “Oh, Zilpha!” Lavinia and Tetsy gasped in unison. That opulent swathe of velvet and sable was an incredible choice for a village band concert.

  But it would knock out the eyeballs of an impressionable young man from the sticks. Roland’s expression as he helped Lavinia into her sumptuous cocoon was all the ladies could have hoped for.

  “I ought to drive you in a limousine instead of a Ford truck,” he burst out.

  Lavinia wondered if that was a hint for Zilpha to lend them the Packard, too, but Miss Tabard was too wily a campaigner for that.

  “Oh, but the truck will be an adventure! I think the blue moh
air throw and the leather cushions from the back parlor, don’t you, Tetsy?”

  Suitably outfitted, they drove off. Roland was so full of praise for Miss Tabard and Miss Mull that his passenger could hardly get a word in edgewise, which was just as well. Lavinia didn’t feel like talking. She needed time to get used to the idea that she was going out for the evening, unchaperoned, with an eligible young man.

  This must constitute her debut. Bumping along a rocky lane in borrowed finery was a far cry from curtseying to a Boston receiving line, but who cared? Her escort might be tedious, the music might be out of tune, but Lavinia was out in society at last, and she was going to have a lovely time at the concert.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The concert was pleasant enough in its way, but the real thrill for Lavinia came the next morning when she put on a plain blue skirt and her most no-nonsense shirtwaist, and climbed the path to the drafting room.

  Roland was all set to be sociable, but Lavinia caught the expression on his partner’s face and cut him short.

  “What shall I do first, Mr. Clinton?”

  “Typewrite a letter.”

  Without wasting breath on inconsequentials, the ginger cat began to dictate, rapping out facts and figures at such a rate that Lavinia’s fingers began to stumble on the keys.

  “Do you mind if I just get the words down, then make a clear copy later instead of having to stop you for corrections?”

  He nodded and talked even faster. By the time they had dealt with a sheaf of correspondence, she had fifteen pages to retype. Clinton glanced at the pile dubiously.

  “Did you get all that stuff straight?”

  “I believe so, but you might like to read the letters over before I make the fair copies. From now on, I think it would be better to make first drafts on plain paper instead of wasting your good stationery. Do you have any?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  He jerked open a desk drawer. “Here’s some, and that tissue paper beside it is for making copies. Do you know how?”

  She didn’t, so he showed her.

  “You dampen a sheet of the tissue, lay it over the finished letter, then feed it through these little rollers.”

  “What fun! It’s like a little clothes wringer. And the ink comes out faintly on the tissue paper. Where does the copy go?”

  “It’s supposed to be filed, so that we have a record of every letter that goes out. The idea is to have a separate folder for each new job and to keep them in alphabetical order, but it never seems to happen.”

  “I could make it happen,” said Lavinia, “that is, if you want me to.”

  “Feel free.”

  Clinton went back to his drawing table with a surprisingly attractive grin on his face. Lavinia got back to her letters. She was blissfully pecking away when the telephone rang, two longs and a short.

  “That’s our ring,” said Clinton without taking his eyes off his work.

  Did he mean she was supposed to answer it? Lavinia panicked. She’d hardly ever spoken into one in her life. What should she say? It rang again. She hastened over to the varnished box on the wall, put the black listening tube to her ear, and spoke diffidently into the mouthpiece.

  “Good morning.”

  “Hay there?”

  Was this one of Adenoid Annie’s boy friends, being fresh? Lavinia replied frostily, “Whom did you wish to speak with, please?”

  “I said Hay, didn’t I? What’s the matter, you deaf or just dumb?”

  Was this how men talked to office girls? She flushed and slipped her hand over the transmitter.

  “Mr. Clinton, I—I think someone wants you. What shall I say?”

  For an answer, he got up and took the receiver out of her hand. Lavinia returned to her typewriting. At least this was something she could do right. She tried to work the copying rollers, got the tissue too damp, smudged the ink, crumpled the paper, and had to do the whole business over. Clinton noticed. It was small comfort that he looked amused instead of exasperated.

  By a superhuman effort, she got all the letters done by eleven o’clock. She carried them over to be signed, partly because she wanted a peek at what the men were drawing. She was surprised to see that the ginger cat was sketching a design for a facade while Roland, who looked so much the more artistic, was working with T-square and triangle on a maze of interlocking lines.

  “What’s that going to be?” she asked him.

  “A plumbing and heating system for a mill,” he explained. “I’m very much interested in plumbing.”

  “Good thing one of us is,” growled Clinton. “Better watch your language, Ath. Miss Tabard may think plumbing is a naughty word.”

  Lavinia bristled. “Mr. Clinton, couldn’t you please call me by my given name? It sounds silly when one of you does and the other doesn’t.”

  Ah, she’d got a rise out of him. He flushed. “Long as I don’t have to call you Lav,” he muttered. “It sounds like a bathroom fixture.”

  “I quite agree. And I shan’t call you Hay. That’s a bit too much like a cow’s breakfast, don’t you think?”

  She tossed her head and went to lick envelopes, feeling smug until the telephone rang again. This time, she answered almost without a qualm. The call was for Athelney. He thanked her gravely, took the receiver, and listened for some time without saying much. Then he replied, “If you really think it’s necessary,” and hung up.

  “Hay, that was Jenkins. He’s ready to pour the concrete and wants us to check the forms.”

  “Then go check ’em.”

  “I’d feel safer if you came along?”

  “What for? You know more about that stuff than I do.”

  Athelney looked worried and didn’t move. Clinton looked up at him and sighed.

  “All right, Ath. Give me two seconds.”

  “What shall I do while you’re gone?” Lavinia asked.

  “Make daisy chains,” Clinton snarled. Then he spied the neatly typed envelopes she was sealing and had the grace to relent.

  “We’ve got to get the job sheets caught up so we can do some billing. You might as well take a whack, Lavinia, you couldn’t possibly make a bigger hash of the job than Adenoid Annie did. Show her, Ath, while I finish this sketch.”

  Looking more worried than before, Athelney dragged out a pile of folders bulging with invoices, showed her how these all had to be entered under their appropriate headings, then added the fatal words, “Then you add them up,”

  Lavinia’s heart sank, but before she could explain that this was simply an impossible request, Clinton threw down his pencil and hustled his partner out the door, pausing only to bark, “If anybody calls, write down the message. Don’t trust your memory. We should be back in an hour or so.”

  Lavinia answered “Yes,” but nobody was left to hear. She was alone with the job sheets.

  At least she could try entering the invoices. This turned out to be an almost laughably simple task for one who’d been trained on Zilpha’s laundry lists. Her orderly soul found satisfaction in copying out the information in the elegant script that was a trademark of Miss Axelrod’s pupils. She was plugging along oblivious of passing time when Tetsy Mull appeared, panting and glowering, at the shop door.

  “Zilpha sent me to remind you about luncheon,” she growled.

  “But I can’t leave now,” said Lavinia. “Please ask her to excuse me. The men had to go somewhere, and I promised to stay and answer the telephone until they get back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Please, go ahead without me. I’ll run down and snatch a bite from the larder when I get a chance.”

  Tetsy grunted and stumped off. Lavinia returned to her ledgers, glad of an excuse not to follow but wishing Tetsy hadn’t reminded her about food. Ordinarily she could have done nicely without lunch, but today she was ravenous. That was just too bad. She couldn’t leave, and it would be madness to think the household routine could ever be disrupted for her benefit.

 
She ought to have remembered how her guardian adored rising to emergencies. Less than half an hour later, Tetsy reappeared carrying a dainty tray. On it stood a single rosebud in a silver vase, a napkin with a heavily crocheted lace edging, a silver luncheon fork, and a covered china plate holding two sprigs of asparagus and a microscopic portion of chicken salad.

  “Zilpha says you must eat something,” snapped the companion.

  “How considerate of her, and of you for bringing it,” Lavinia replied politely. “Please don’t exert yourself to come back for the tray. I’ll bring it down with me when I get through here.”

  She was not about to ask Miss Mull into the drafting room. This was her sanctuary. She didn’t even want to bring that intrusively elegant tray to her battered oak desk. It looked silly there, and the portion it bore was hardly worth bothering about anyway. Nevertheless, Lavinia set it down and was chasing the last fragment of chicken around the bare plate when Clinton returned alone, carrying a tin lard pail. He cast one fast glance at the silver bud vase and dropped the pail into the nearest wastebasket.

  “What did you just throw away?” Lavinia demanded.

  “Nothing,” he muttered.

  She bounded across the room, fished out the pail, and pried off the lid. Inside were a preserving jar full of hot coffee, a hefty roast beef sandwich, and a slab of apple pie, all clumsily wrapped in butcher’s paper.

  “Hayward Clinton,” she blazed, “how dared you throw away all this lovely food when I’m starving to death?”

  “It’s not your style,” he mumbled.

  “What do you know about my style? This tray isn’t my style. It’s my guardian’s, and she sent it because she doesn’t know any better. Why do you have to act so snippy?”