She rested her arms in their pale yellow sleeves on the top of the iron gate, and listened. What a boon to the lonely or the downhearted the radio was, she thought, as the refrain cruised the air with gusto which set her foot to beating time to the rhythm.
“ ‘The farmer’s in the dell,
The farmer’s in the dell,
Heigh o the derry oh,
The farmer’s in the dell.”
“The …’ ”
The song stopped abruptly. Evidently the listener thought it time for the farmer to be snapped out of the dell. Had the trainer been the listener? It was a week since he had warned Curtis Newsome and “any member of the Seven Chimneys’ outfit” to keep off. It was just a week since she had seen the new maid gazing at herself in the mirror, she remembered irrelevantly. Emma, she called herself, was efficient; she rarely spoke—when she did, it was with an English accent—but whenever she was in the room, Sandra was reminded of the telephone girl’s comparison of her to corked up TNT, and her slangy conclusion:
“Treat that dame rough and she’s all set to go off with a bang.”
The contact would not be lacking at Seven Chimneys, Sandra concluded, with a thrilled, if shivery, premonition of excitement to come. Was Huckins, the butler, especially interested in her, or had he been giving the new servant instructions merely, that first day she had seen them together? The maid might have been an automaton for all the notice Philippe Rousseau took of her. It was doubtful if the other members of the household were aware of the change in waitresses; when Mrs. Newsome was in one of her servant-eating moods—as she had been for the last week—they came and went with bewildering rapidity. It was a wonder that the butler stayed on; she was particularly raw to him. Doubtless he was picking up a small fortune in commissions.
Of course, the woman who had applied first for the position of social secretary might be in such dire stress that she would accept housework, but in that case, why dye her hair? Pride? Ought she tell Mrs. Pat of her discovery? No. Why be little Miss Fix-it? If she told any one it should be Mr. Damon, but why tell him yet? The woman might lose the job of which probably she was in tragic need.
Sandra switched her thoughts from the waitress. She had much better consider what would happen to her if she were discovered on Stone House property. The trainer’s warning to keep away had prodded her like a challenge, and here she was stepping on proscribed ground. The foray into enemy country had been her first thought when Mrs. Pat had announced her departure for a day or two. She had been summoned to Mr. Damon’s office for a conference, she had explained, had added bitterly to her husband:
“Better not come with me, Curtis. Probably Nick will be there, and you hate the sight of him.”
Sandra had pondered that last remark. Curtis Newsome’s voice had held no hint of dislike when he had exclaimed, “He’s a grand guy!” Was his wife trying to strike a spark of enmity between the two men?
With the owner in the city, and the trainer, she hoped, where he belonged, on the track or in the stables, the opportunity to approach Stone House appeared heavensent. It was more than a house; it was a personality. Snuggled into a perennial border lovely with pinks and blues, soft yellows, violets, the green of emeralds and tourmalines, it suggested births and toddling childhood, daring youth, home-comings, weddings, achievement, delightful old age, and lives well lived passing on to Paradise.
The dogs abandoned the squirrel they had been hunting, flung their lithe bodies against the wrought-iron gate and drew themselves up to look over. They whined and snuffled, wagged their tails riotously as a chunky woman, whose figure billowed under its dove-gray taffeta, appeared on the flagged path at the side of the house. Her arms were full of long-stemmed dahlias in varying shades of red. Her laugh was a plump chuckle as she looked at the two heads with their open mouths, dripping tongues, and snapping eyes.
“So-o there you are, Bud an’ Buddy. Come down from the big house to see old Nanny O’Day, have you?” A slight touch of brogue richened, deepened her kindly voice. Her small merry eyes appraised the girl. “You’re the new secretary at Seven Chimneys, aren’t you, my dear? Bridie’s told me about you. Come in. Come in.”
She lifted the latch. Sandra drew back. She caught the dogs—who showed symptoms of being about to crash the gate—by their collars.
“Oh no, thank you. I am sure Mr. Hoyt wouldn’t like it. I didn’t mean to intrude. I only stopped for a moment to look at the old house. It did something to my heart, and I lingered. I had heard so much about it.”
“Of course you’ve heard about it; who hasn’t in this part of the world?” The roll of the r was a joy. “You needn’t be asking pardon because you stopped; hundreds do. As for Mr. Nick’s not liking it, it’s a show place, he knows that. Wouldn’t you like to see inside?”
Sandra’s scruples as to intrusion thinned like mist under the woman’s sunny personality.
“I would love to see the inside, Nanny O’Day.” The dogs attempted to squeeze by her as she opened the gate. “No, boys, no! Stay outside and wait for me, and don’t go teary-eyed as if I were a hard-hearted wretch, either.”
“Let them come in. Well they know the place and me.”
“Is Mr. Hoyt at home?”
“Even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. He doesn’t mind visitors so long as they don’t cut pieces out of the paneling as one crazy man did the other day. Come in. Come in, an’ we’ll have a cup of tea.”
Sandra followed the waddling figure into a hall—coolly dim after the sunny outside world—sheathed in pine boards mellowed to a dusky brown. Nanny O’Day stopped and pressed a panel under the stairway. It rolled back and revealed a dusky interior with dark blotches which were steps.
“See the stairs? They go up and then down. Indians used to be as thick as huckleberries round this country and folks took to hiding sometimes.” Her voice had dropped to a dramatic whisper.
“May I go in and look? My father used to live in the village and he has told me many times about the underground passage.”
“Certain, certain, my dear. Go in. Take this flashlight so you can see.”
Sandra went slowly up the age-blackened stairs which creaked uncannily under her feet. The air was clear and sweet. She peeked into a sort of cubicle on the landing. She could see a bar of light. Had the opening once been a window?
Other steps descended to a bolted wooden door. Eerie shadows. Queer groaning noises in the walls. She hastily rejoined Nanny O’Day.
“Didn’t take you long, my dear. There isn’t much to see but every one wants to see it,” the woman observed indulgently. “Come to the living room; the woodwork in that never has been changed.”
Sandra controlled an absurd urge to look furtively over her shoulder at the secret panel as she followed into a room scented with tobacco. Set in the middle of one wall of bookshelves was the painting of a tight-lipped, white-collared Puritan; his eyes were as stone-gray as his clipped mustache and small goatee. A table-desk looked businesslike; a small piano was in one corner; there were lattice windows; a noisy little fire crackled and flamed on the hearth.
With profound sighs, the dogs thumped to the rug in front of the blaze, dropped their heads on their outstretched paws, and looked up at Nanny O’Day with expectant eyes. Back to them, she arranged the tall dahlias in a bronze vase, crooning over the flowers as if they were children whom she delighted to touch. The blossoms harmonized with the red leather of the old-time chairs as the firelight brightened it to scarlet, dimmed it to dark crimson. Her labor of love completed, she drew forward a small table.
“Sit down, my dear, and we’ll have tea—unless you are afraid of our ghost.” Her chuckle was as round and soft as her ruddy cheeks.
“A ghost!” Sandra’s knees gave way. She sat down suddenly.
“Certain, certain, my dear. Doesn’t every self-respecting property as old as this have a ghost? See that portrait between the books? See the mark on the man’s coat just below the heart? A sword made that. Notice
the eyes?”
Sandra wondered if the creepy chills which slithered along her veins were becoming chronic. She nodded and put her hand to her constricted throat even as she mentally flayed herself for being such a poor sport.
“Those eyes were peep-holes in Revolutionary days.”
Sandra paid tribute to Nanny O’Day’s dramatic power. She had missed her vocation; she should have gone on the stage. As if encouraged by the girl’s silence, the woman elaborated.
“The portrait is hung over what was a window before the little room back of it was built on. The secret stairway I showed you runs up to that. One day Major Hoyt of the Continental Army, home for a day to hold a secret conference with superior officers—some say ’twas General Washington himself—was standing on the very spot you’re on now. He looked up. The eyes of the portrait flickered!”
Sandra impulsively linked her arm in Nanny O’Day’s. The woman patted her hand.
“Quick as a flash the Major plunged his sword through the picture. He heard a groan, then a thud. He rushed for the secret panel. The spring wouldn’t work—it sticks even now. He shouted for the servants. It was ten minutes before they forced the door.”
“Whom did they find?”
“What beautiful eyes you have, my dear; they’re as velvety as black pansies. Who did the Major find? Nobody, just a pool of blood and a red trail along the underground passage and trampled mud where it comes out at the river bank.”
“Did they find out who had been spying?”
“No. They suspected a member of the family who had turned king’s man. No one else knew of the passage. He disappeared only to return to float about the estate, it’s said, when there’s treachery afoot. Then he walks as a warning to the traitor. You look white. I’ve talked too much. It’s nothing but a story, child, nothing but a story. We’ll have tea right off. I don’t know what Mr. Nicholas would do to me if he knew I’d frightened you. Make yourself at home, my dear, while I put the kettle on and make some toast; our little maid is out. Like it with cinnamon?”
“Adore it. I’m not fr-flightened, really I’m not. Let me help? I haven’t seen the inside of a kitchen—an honest-to-goodness kitchen—for five years. I used to love to cook.”
“Certain, certain, come right along. Ours is a nice kitchen.”
Sandra slipped out of her knit jacket and laid it over a chair, before she followed Nanny O’Day into the hall. She was glad to get away from the portrait. Could that thing she had seen by the pool have been real?
“Don’t be silly, don’t be silly! It only appeared when there was treachery afoot, Nanny O’Day had said. Could it be that Philippe—forget it, forget it,” she told herself and dashed into the kitchen.
“Nice” was hardly the word to describe the long, deliciously cool room with its solid oak beams; it was adorable. Red geraniums in pots sunned themselves on the deep sills of the windows—windows draped in ruffled white muslin, set into the massive granite walls. A rocking chair, cushioned in red and white gingham, stood near the end of a table, which was covered with an old-fashioned red and white and blue plaid cloth on which rested a brimming workbasket and a yellow bowl heaped with eggs. One end of the room was all fireplace, with great ovens at the sides and seats at the outer edge of the nine-foot opening. A dresser, its shelves displaying pewter platters, bowls, pint-pots, porringers, and plates which shone like silver, stood against the wall opposite the windows.
A canary in a gilded cage poured out his heart in song. A fluffy white angora cat with an orange tail, on the threshold of the open door, sprang to her feet, bared her teeth, and hunched her back into an interrogation point. The dogs who had followed Sandra looked casually at each other; then as casually turned and walked softly back into the hall. Nanny O’Day chuckled.
“Bud and Buddy have had their lesson.” She chirped to the bird before she explained: “That pewter was used by the Hoyts up to the Revolution; then porcelain came in. Now look at our modern kitchen!”
With faintly repressed pride she moved a three-fold screen and disclosed an electric range, refrigerator, and all the equipment an up-to-the-minute kitchen should possess.
Sandra nodded reluctant approval. “I suppose that is necessary now, but the old part is infinitely more picturesque, isn’t it?”
“Certain, certain, my dear,” Nanny O’Day was enveloping herself in a capacious white apron, “but the new way saves time and energy. Take this; you might spot that nice knitted dress.”
Sandra doubled the sleeveless apron around her and tied the strings in a belt. She bobbed a little curtsey.
“All ready for work, ma’am.”
“Sure an’ it’s a pity Mr. Nick isn’t here to see the new cook with her pretty bare arms. Here’s the bread. Cut it as you like it. I’ll put on the kettle.” She brought egg-shell cups and saucers and set them on a tray.
“We’ll take this to the living room—”
“Please let’s have tea here. I’d love it.”
“Just as you say, my dear. Mr. Nicholas often has his breakfast in the kitchen, and sometimes the head trainer, Mr. Parsons, and Eddie Sharp, the jockey, come for tea. There’s the phone! Some woman or girl calling Mr. Nick, of course. They don’t give him a minute’s peace or me either. It’s:
“ ‘Is Mr. Hoyt there?’ or ‘When do you expect Mr. Hoyt?’ ‘The minute he comes in tell Mr. Hoyt to ring—’ from morning till night.
“All I can think of is the fox with the hounds after him. I suppose it’s to be expected when a bachelor is rich and young and handsome as a picture. You’ll find everything you need. Go right ahead and make your tea and anything else you want; no knowin’ when I’ll be back; whoever it is will be wanting me to write down a message.”
Sandra’s eyes thoughtfully followed the plump woman as she got under way like a fussy little tugboat. Fox and hounds! Had Nanny O’Day picked up that comparison from the pursued Nicholas Hoyt himself? What detestable conceit! Thank heaven, he was in town today. Had she run into him here, he might have thought her another hound on his trail. He and his trainer! Like master like man. So—the trainer’s name was Parsons. Catch her coming to Stone House again! But now that she was here and the poor badgered fox was in his city lair, why not make the most of this advenure?
She filled the kettle, sliced bread. The bowl of eggs drew her eyes like a magnet. She was ravenously hungry. Had she forgotten how to scramble them? Nanny O’Day had handed her the freedom of the kitchen. Why not try?
Could that story of the ghostly traitor be true? Of course not. She must keep the thing out of her mind. As an aid to normal thinking she hummed under her breath as she moved back and forth across the sun-patched floor.
“ ‘The farmer’s in the dell,’ ” the last word rippled as she remembered Nanny O’Day’s comparison. She paraphrased:
“The hounds are on the trail,
The hounds are on the trail,
Heigh o the derry oh,
The hounds are on the trail.”
The canary began to sing. The kettle began to purr. The toast began to brown. Appetizing smell! She was reaching into the pantry when she heard some one enter the kitchen. Without looking over her shoulder, she called:
“We’ll have eggs with our tea, Nanny O’Day. You never tasted anything like my scrambled—”
She turned. The trainer was at the door, his figure dark against the sunshine. She dropped a saucepan and held her hands high in pretended terror.
“D-don’t s-shoot, Mr. Parsons!”
CHAPTER VIII
“Hands down! This ain’t my day for putting folks on the spot, Miss.” The man leaned against the door, twisting a cap in his hands. “Say, how did you know my name was Parsons?”
He was quite a different person from the disheveled rider she had seen breaking the colt. His hair was smoothly brushed, his riding clothes were well cut, but he was still keeping up the impersonation. She would appear as dumb as he thought her.
“Mrs. O’Day told me that Mr.
Parsons, the trainer, often came in for tea. I didn’t tell her that you and I were ancient enemies.”
“Enemies! So that accounts for the dramatics when I appeared.”
There was an ironic twist to his mouth which Sandra remembered a warning glint in the clear gray eyes. “Dramatics” had been a slip. It was quite out of character.
“Certain, certain.” She didn’t realize that she was mimicking dear old Nanny O’Day until the words were spoken. This man certainly had the trick of making her flippant. “Having dared to come to Stone House in spite of your warning, Mr. Horse-breaker, I was prepared to take my punishment.”
“Why did you come?”
Sandra expertly broke eggs into a bowl, measured milk, thoughtfully added salt and pepper to the mixture.
“To see this wonderful house. I had heard—” Perhaps it would be better not to tell him that she had heard of the place for years and years from her father. “Having heard that your boss was in the city, I seized the opportunity. I had forgotten that he had a savage understudy. What will you do about it—beat me?” Now why had she defied him instead of being sweetly apologetic? She turned on the heat and set the saucepan on the electric range.
“I didn’t beat Curtain Call. What are you doing?”
He was rather heart-warming when he smiled—pity he didn’t indulge oftener. Why not be friendly? He was not to blame for his employer’s shortcomings.
“Scrambling eggs. Nanny O’Day turned me loose in this adorable kitchen, and I couldn’t resist cooking. I haven’t been in a real home for years, and I’m incurably domestic.”
He came over to the range. “They look grand. Can you spare some?” As Sandra hesitated, he added: “I have many of my meals here; Nanny O’Day won’t object.”
Why not? He was the deputy manager of this huge estate. Hadn’t Nanny O’Day said that he often came in for tea? He was interesting, and she liked and had spent her life among interesting men. Each time she had talked with him she had had the sensation of being gloriously alive; he had the same effect that flags flying, the approach of martial music had on her spirit.
Uncharted Seas Page 7
