The brunette-haired girls call my name.
“Spikey! Oh, Spikey. Hurry Spike McGilligin, or Manlington will be most upset with you if you are late I think, too. Oui!”
“Ah-choo! Quit ticklin’s me! Aw-right, Oi’m almost there.”
Wearing this silly outfit is just about too much. I feel like a complete idiot in this ridiculous page boy costume, but our Manlington saw to it that everyone would be properly attired in the appropriate garb of their station.
I do not care if it is a tradition, I am not happy about the hair-cut I have had to get.
I have not had an opportunity to walk through this main entrance before. Good grief, this arched, double door is an impressive portal. I’ll just ease myself through. Maybe I can just go slip into line without a confrontation with our absorbed butler.
No such luck! I’m only halfway through the door before he sees me!
“OOOOOOOOOh, Spike my boy, I was afraid you’d be late for the receiving line but of course I should have known you would not let me down. You look marvelous my dear boy, though, I do wish you could have polished up those adorable little boot buckles. I am sure those quadruple rows of brass buttons on your velveteen vest could have stood a nobbing of polish; nevertheless, with your white stockinged calves showing beneath the knee of your ribbon secured, poofy trouser leg hem, you are the very picture of a country manor’s household page boy.”
Manlington’s ebony face breaks into such a bright expression of happiness I am afraid that his dimples will pop off his high cheekbones. With a brief hopping toe twiddle, he swiftly prances over the vast expanse of the porch to snatch me by my collar and drag me into me place in the receiving line. I tries to pull towards a place with the girls, but the picky fellow insists that I should be stuck between the gardener and the shepherd. The shepherd is the only remaining member of the old estate, but he does not really consider himself as a part of the staff. It seems that his family disputes the ownership of the land and decided to squatte upon a sizable bit of acreage. This started several hundreds of years back, and this gentleman and his brothers are just carrying on the tradition and the squatte. To prevent bloodshed, it has been judged safest by all involved to look upon them as hired shepherds. For their part, they have chosen to look upon the pay they receive as rent for the Manor that sits in their yard.
Manlington merrily minces up the long receiving line giving last minute instructions as to etiquette, and granting glowing commendations on a job well done upon each person’s personal appearance, in an attempt to make them feel a bit better after all the corrections he has had to quickly make in their dress. He travels up and down the line many times, often rearranging us in different places in an effort to get everyone’s appearance to the highest pinnacle of presentation. He makes a great fuss over everyone, everyone but one person, that is. This person who stands at the head of the line and a little distant is above inspection from Manlington. The fearful Household Matron conducts her own ongoing inspection but from a stationary position.
“See here, Spike McGilligin, I don’t care for that surly attitude, you tarted up little gutter urchin.” The head of household glares at me hatefully with her shiny black eyes. “If you so much as batt an eye at either of these guests, er, I mean residents, no, I mean, the owner of this estate, I’ll have the cook throw you in the soup, you wretched little scamp. I’ve got my eye on you. Am I understood?!”
“Yes, Frau SaurSkowlle. Oops! Oi mean, Mrs. SaurSkowlle!”
Darn it! Why did a frightened squeak have to pop into me voice?
“Carriage, ah-ho!” calls down Morag the smelter. Amid his bubbling pots of molten lead that he has up on the roof with him he also has a little campsite and has not been down in weeks. Along with his roof repairs with the metal sealant, he also makes time to relieve many of the hundreds of chimneys that entangle the roof their occupation of starlings, rooks, and crows. At this time, though, Manlington has had him mount the soaring tower that looms over the front of this creepy keep. The stone pile climbs to a morose, gray and cloudy sky. From these lofty battlements he has maintained a faithful watch for our new Lady and her American souvenir.
Manlington jumps up and down with an excited twiddling of his feet in his exuberance before regaining his self control. The Head of Household servants, the fearsome Frau SaurSkowlle, I mean, Mrs. SaurSkowlle, looks on with angry disapproval.
The gates of the estate that face upon the Great Gnarly Growth Passage are somewhat distant. It takes a minute for the carriage to finally come into view from over an intervening hillock. A glorious set of four matched black horses that pull the estate’s beautiful carriage are at speed as we await their approach. Much care has gone into the paint and repair of the carriage that it might appear as new for the returning Missus.
The driver must stand on his perch and pull with all his might to coax his excited team into deceleration. He does so with some skill and flare as the speeding coach comes to a halt immediately opposite of the front door.
The coachman turns, giving an authoritative finger snap of his white gloved hand, that signals his two lanky footmen to hop down from their stanchions on the back of the magnificent carriage and take their places on either side of the little wooden ship’s doors. He then turns his curly blond head to the waiting butler. With a dazzling smile he relieves the charge of his passengers to Manlington. In a slow and elegant gait, Manlington with a poise and grace that has been elevated to the nth degree, opens the carriage door.
Well, let’s get a look at this Old Lady Plumta... Blimey! She ain’t no old lady! She’s a beautiful young woman! What a looker! She has paused in the door of the carriage to avail herself of the elevated view to take a quick glance around. The Sun chooses this moment and that location to break through the gloomy clouds capturing the saffron sophisticate in a perfect spotlight. The glow produces a beauty enhancing splendor. I can almost imagine little fanciful painted bluebirds flitting about her pretty head, but they are able to miraculously hover about with gravity defying ease, singing joyful songs and whistling merry trills through improbably puffed up cheeks. Her radiant smile encompasses the entire ensemble and puts any misgivings we had of the new mistress at rest.
Manlington offers a steadying hand as she steps lightly to the ground.
The clouds return as the other one pokes his head out of the carriage. Like a tortoise emerging from its shell, he blinks uncontrollably, obviously struck with dumb-found wonder at the sight of the massive house and extensive staff of servants. This puppy has the mouth of a guppy. It just hangs there agape in an embarrassing display of an inability to comprehend his surroundings. I am half expecting the little uncooked potato to allow a line of saliva to escape his gaping gorm and to drool from his slack gate. I sense an inner moan pass through the collective bowels of the assembled staff as it appears we have an uncivilized and basically savage heathen at large on the estate. I did not think such a thing possible, but his very aura drips with low-end United States emanations. The Americanism pulsates in sickly vibrations. Nevertheless, our ranks make every attempt to put a good face on things and ignore the oncoming dreadfulness that is this horrid little quasi-Lord of the Manor.
“Welcome to Plumtartt Manor! We are so pleased to see you. I am your primary servant and butler, Manlington. I am joined by and most ably assisted in the running of the house by the supremely competent Mrs. SaurSkowlle.”
The Lady and the little toady lord shake hands with the monster and the matron of Plumtartt Manor.
“Did you enjoy a pleasant journey, eh hem?” asks the ever gracious Manlington.
“Yessir, we sure did! I sure do love y’all’s trains. They are the bee’s knees as you all like to say. Uh, hunh, uh, hunh! But we did have a funny encounter once we got to Elderberry Pond Station. Seems like just as soon as we stepped off the train, a little old lady apple seller glommed onto us in no uncertain terms. Didn’t matter how many apples I bought, she stayed right with Miss Plumtartt and me all the way
to the carriage. She talked me into buying apples for the cabbie and crew, too. She was all hunched over with age, and insisted on carefully placing the precious apple into each person’s hand.”
“Before we move to the receiving line, let us turn and meet these lucky apple eaters that are our coachman and his footmen.”
“We met briefly at the station, but if I may reiterate, it is so very noice to ‘ave you gentle folks ‘ere at the manor. Moi name’s Bishop RooksPawn. Oi shall always ‘ave the carriage here in top condition and ready to go at your command. Oi am ably assisted by these lads that, when not riding along as footmen and guards on the road, are tending to the horses and the stables. Moight Oi present the brothers Jabez and Horbaz WilloughSickle.”
Jabez gives a grin and bobs his head in a half curtsy, half bow. “Welcome back to Plumtartt Manor, Mum, and sir.”
“Tee hee! If ye gets bored aboot the Manor, ye come sees me in the barn, Master Icky. Oi’m sure we can foind a bit of mischief to get inteh. Tee hee!”
“Hiya Jabez, and howdy Horbaz. It’s a fine thing to meet you fellas. And I sure appreciate the invitation, sir.”
“Howdy he says! Tee hee! Say something else in yer heathen American tongue; it delioghts me to no end! Tee hee!”
“Mr. WilloughSickle! Your manners are rather forward!” Mrs. SaurSkowlle bursts in a sudden flare of anger. “You’ll watch your insolent speech!”
“Please calm yourself, Mrs. SaurSkowlle.” Miss Plumtartt intercedes. “Mr. Temperance and I wish everyone to please be at their ease in their dealings with us.”
“I count but two of you, Mr. WilloughSickle,” comments the computational Black Butler. “I was under the impression that we were hiring three brothers for these footmen positions?”
“Aye, sir,” Jabez answers. “Boot we actually meant our coozin, Baedaz WilloughSickle. However, the lusty lad went and baked up three buns in three different ovens, two of ‘em married, all at once. ‘e’s scampered of to Tooneesier te jine the Frenchie Foreigns.”
Manlington gives Master Rookspawn leave to depart with his coach and two lanky Scotsmen.
Likes a parade of Field Marshalls, the quartet is led by one extremely tall and slightly effeminate etiquette master of untold grace, intelligence and humor. His mahogany complexion matches and coordinates with his butler togges. Mrs. SaurSkowlle must resist the impulse to hurry the couple along. Starting at one end of the line of the estate’s servants, the salutations begin with the fetching milkmaidens. The young Miss has to tug at the sleeve of her young beau several times to break the spell of enchantment that the big friendly girls exude.
The little master shakes his head to clear it of lingering mesmeric effects.
“Here is our laundry lass, Miss Condolescence Purvey.”
I like Condolescence. She’s a fun girl. She keeps her dark hair pulled back in the manner of a horse’s tail. Her eyes twinkle above her jolly cheeks and smiling features, and I like the funny way she laughs, way back deep in her throat, as she talks.
“Huh, huh, huh. ‘appy ta makes your acquaintance, your grace. Huh, huh, huh-you just lets me knows if Oi’s gets too much starch in your short, shorts Mistuh Temps. Huh, huh, huh.”
“Allow me to introduce our cook, Millicent Wallaby.”
“Oi’m very ‘appy to be ’ere and to be your cookie, mum an’ suh.” Her joyful expression is amplified by her freckled dimples.
“We are very to happy to have you in our employ as well, Miss Wallaby. Tell me, do you ladies have any interests outside your normal duties?”
“Oh, yes, Mum. Oi likes to knit little lace doilies to place on the backs of upholstered furniture to protect the fabrics from humanity’s corrosive oils wot deyh is loike to secrete.”
“Huh, huh, huh. An’ Oi loikes to do a bit o’ ewotic embwoidawy. Huh, huh, huh. Oi calls it ‘needlepoornhe.’ Huh, huh, huh.”
I thinks that Millicent and I are the only ones that the Mum and Mr. surpass in height. All these other goomers loom above the little couple.
“I should now like to introduce our gardener, Malachi Cruikshank.”
“Allo, allo, allo, me loovely Mistress and her loocky beau, Ichs-a-bod Temps-a-rance. Oi looks forward to whipping this estate into an ‘orticultural wunduh.”
Right off the bat, this Temperance fellow starts asking the wrong sort of questions.
“You all got any more Cruikshanks at home, Malachi?”
“Nah, it’s just me. That is, unless you counts me brother Malacho. Or our pops, Malachee. But then you’d ‘ave to count me uncles, Maladid, Maladoo and Maladon’t.”
“I look forward to your gardening skills to be displayed as well, Mr. Cruikshank,” Miss Plumtartt smiles back to the toothy wolf. “Though if I may, I should direct your attentions to the hedges bordering on the WroughtAuffle estate. The one known as ‘the Brass Beeyatches.’ If I understand correctly, it has been taken under lease and is now occupied? These hedges are in a terrible state and I should like them to be made presentable straight away.”
Malachi Cruikshank momentarily appears taken aback at hearing that his hedges need trimming but recovers quickly.
“Woi, we can’t be makin’ a bad impression on our neighbors now can we? Oi’ll be on it first thing in the morning, count on it, Mum.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about those people,” Mrs. SaurSkowlle snaps. “That estate is under occupation by a pair of ‘outsiders’. A very suspicious foreign woman that I wouldn’t trust past the front gate has taken that WroughtAuffle home; along with her lukewarm husband. They go by the name of ‘Sforza’.”
“Let us hope that you are under an unfortunate misunderstanding, Mrs. SaurSkowlle,” the Plumtartt dame smoothly purrs. “I should very much like to develop friendships with our neighbors.”
“Friendships! Well! I never heard of such a thing!”
I believe SaurSkowlle when she says that.
This is the moment that I’ve been dreading. Now it’s me own turn.
“I sure do like all them there shiny buttons on your vest, buddy. I like those big, square, silver buckles on your soft little velvet shoes, too. You look mighty fine, like something out of a story book.”
Ugh. I hate this guy Temperance even more.
“You answer when spoken to, page!” Mrs. SaurSkowlle snaps at me, her dagger eyes stabbing me with their accusatory glare.
“Now who is this cute little fellow?” The Madame, Miss Plumtartt, catches me in her hand by the chin and scrunches her nose at me in what is intended to be an endearing manner. “You are just too adorable in your pwecious wecious wittle page boy suit, yes you are. The tapered cut and the blue velveteen fabric with shiny red satin highlights are simply scrumptious! You are absolutely delicious to behold, young man! That is the sweetest little hair style you enjoy. How the straight, shoulder length circle of hair serves to exaggerate the ‘curtain’ effect of the straight cut of hair above your eyes. This goes to form a perfect square around your face’s lovable features that tugs at my heart. In fact, I think the hair style is known by the position you fill. Isn’t that just too divine!”
I struggle to be free of her terrible clutches but I am caught! Somebody give me a knife or a rock or a flask of acid that I can throw at this awful woman to free myself!
“An what’s yoe-wuh wittle namesy wamesy, eh hem?”
“You, Madame, are in possession of our page boy Spike McGilligin. He is indeed a precocious little scamp, is he not?” Manlington encourages the embarrassing scene with a tousle and then straightening back smooth of my hair. “Anywhere, at anytime, simply call his name, and as if from Aladdin’s lamp, he shall appear to grant your every wish and command.”
Just you try that chin grabbing and baby talk with this next crazy old coot, Lady!
“I should very much like to introduce you to our shepherds, but as is evidenced, we only have been able to produce one where there should be three. Would you care to offer an explanation, Mr. BarbarraHaughnne?”
; The immobile figure standing beside me does not make a sign that he is connected to our little proceedings. The great, stout, and powerfully built man stands with feet braced wide and firm. His eyes stare out above and through the proceedings as he considers himself above contact with less than righteous peoples such as he. In fact, I think I could probably swing the flat side of a boat oar into that face and he would not blink. With his upper lip and cheeks shaved smooth to the jawline, his hair and beard surround his face like a sunflower. Indignant piety radiates from the cross, country zealot.
“I didn’t know there were any Quakers in these parts, Ma’am.”
“No Mr. Temperance, he is a Quacker.”
“Ma’am?”
“They prefer marshy lands to dry and have a peculiar oulde form of speech that they cling to, hence, ‘Quackers’.”
Manlington clears his throat meaningfully in a signal that he is speaking to the separated shepherd.
“I thought that an agreement had been made, Mr. Jebidiah BarbarraHaughnne. You said that you would in fact produce your Quacker brothers for the reception. I look about but your oh so distinctive brothers do not make their charming presence felt. Would you care to explain to Miss Plumtartt their inexcusable absence?”
“Oh, that’s perfectly all right, Manlington. If Mr. BarbarraHaughnne is the sole representative of his clan then I am sure that will suffice.”
The Quacker’s indignant stare continues. He shows no sign of being communicative by speech, sound or sight. It is difficult to know if he can actually hear our conversation. He projects a feeling of raw willpower that could very well cancel out sound if he so desired. I do think he is very upset, though. It’s the way his bristly beard almost crackles with electric sparks from the pent-up anger contained in the clenched jaw.
A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) Page 8
