Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  “I told you all along they never took any notice of me,” his helpmeet reminded him. “I told you all along that you should have gone instead, and you wouldn’t. And here we are.”

  Sir George, now catching her ladyship’s warning eye, did no more than harrumph and say that well, he supposed, as it was all water under the bridge—

  “Plaster all over the floor,” interposed Nigel.

  —there was nothing to be done except go and look at the damage and try to guess how much extra it was likely to cost to sort out.

  “Bound to be a lot,” said Sir George. “Always is. Right, Fred?”

  “Right,” said Fred, and led the procession.

  All four Colvedens contemplated the eyes. Lady Colveden was prepared to accept that they glared rather than stared; and they were definitely angry. Nigel was reminded of one of the most choleric masters at his prep school. Louise ventured that they had the look of a pig, puffed round with fat and, if it was the word, scowling.

  “Pigs are friendly creatures,” objected Sir George. “But those eyes...”

  “...belong to nobody friendly,” finished Nigel.

  “No,” said Sir George. He looked at the foreman. “Any ideas?”

  “They’re old,” said Fred. He looked sadly at his employer. “Could be historical.”

  “Oh dear,” said her ladyship.

  “Right,” said Fred.

  Louise turned to Nigel. “This history—it is bad?”

  “Not in the sense of evil,” said Nigel. “No witches or satanic spells, although there were always rumours—”

  “In Plummergen,” interposed his mother before he could repeat any of these, “they’ll say anything about anyone if they feel like it. As you should know by now. Just because they were three sisters living together, and nobody ever saw them—”

  “Or married them.” Sir George shuddered. “Damned lucky escape.”

  “For the men,” agreed Nigel. “They were just...batty old women.” He dismissed the Saxons with a grin. “But not bad, as such.” Lots of people had right-wing sympathies—it was all a long time ago—and anyway they were dead. “It’s the historical bit that could be a problem. It’ll mean notifying the museum and hordes of archaeologists examining the place for months while they decide if we’ll ever be allowed to move in. Right, Fred?”

  “Right,” said Fred.

  The breakfast discussion was lengthy, but the conclusion had been obvious from the start. “Shall you telephone Dr. Braxted, George, or do you want me to?” asked Lady Colveden. “After all, I’ve always been the one most involved with the place.”

  Sir George looked sheepish. His wistful gaze fell upon the newspaper, but now his conscience was even more firmly against reading at the table. He buttered more toast. Louise passed him the marmalade.

  Lady Colveden was not a cruel woman. “Euphemia Braxted is our local historian,” she told Louise. “Very keen, very knowledgeable.”

  Louise looked puzzled. “More so than Monsieur Jessyp? Is he, after all, no historian? From the talk I have heard around the village, I had supposed...”

  She smiled her perplexity, and Lady Colveden smiled back. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t mean to confuse you, my dear. Dr. Braxted is from the Brettenden museum. Martin Jessyp knows a lot about local matters, but he’s not—not paid to know it, as she is.”

  “Rather like Gentlemen and Players,” supplied Nigel. There followed a lively discussion on the good old days of cricket, which cheered Sir George until he caught his wife’s eye, and subsided.

  “She’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.” Her ladyship sighed. “I suppose we must be thrilled, too, if Fred is right, and it’s historic and unusual and in all his born days he’s never come across anything like it...”

  “Like it?” echoed Nigel. “I don’t like it. Who wants to live in a house with little piggy eyes scowling at them? Not me! I won’t ask Louise what she thinks. I think it’s creepy.” He did not enlarge on the village view that the area might be haunted. A small triangular piece of land known as the Kettle Wedge, now forming part of the churchyard, was said in earlier days to have belonged to Summerset Cottage. Nigel did not believe in ghosts or manifestations, but he felt strongly that if those ill-tempered eyes were those of the original owner of the house, who looked like the sort of man who’d need to bargain for his salvation—well, he wanted them gone before he went to live there.

  “Euphemia can knock off the rest of the plaster and take down the boards and shove them in her museum,” he said. “Perhaps she’ll know where we can get other old planks to match—even if they’re foreign, no disrespect to you, Louise.”

  “He means from farther afield than Brettenden or Romney or Rye,” said Lady Colveden to her daughter-in-law, who smiled.

  “This has been explained,” she said. “But when there are true foreigners in the village, perhaps a few planks for an inside wall may go unnoticed?”

  “Oh, you’ve met them too,” said Lady Colveden. “They’re very good about local shops, aren’t they? And so polite about doors and things, even if they don’t say much. Italians, somebody said, although somebody else said they don’t sound much like the prisoners of war on the farms here years back.”

  Louise hesitated. Nigel prompted her. “She doesn’t bite if you disagree,” he said.

  Louise smiled. “My languages are not so good,” she ventured. “My English, of course, because of my mother, but others, no, for Papa would never let me learn German and what I was taught of Italian I have mostly forgotten, but I would have said Spanish, perhaps, though it is an accent I do not recognise.”

  Sir George, still subdued, buttered more toast.

  “Italian, Spanish, does it matter?” said his wife. “If we needed to know we could always look at their phrasebook, but they have beautiful manners, and use local shops, so as long as they take care how they drive, I hope they enjoy their holiday.”

  Sir George helped himself in silence to marmalade.

  Miss Armitage had meant to be helpful, Miss Seeton was sure. Meeting her friend coming from the smithy with the new leather belt, Miss Armitage, formerly so quiet, on hearing why a new belt was required invited herself to tea, and took so delighted an interest in Cousin Flora’s sewing machine that Miss Seeton asked if she would like to try it.

  “And of course you’d like me to fit the belt.” Miss Armitage twinkled gaily at Miss Seeton, who turned pink, and smiled.

  An old pillowcase destined by Martha for dusters was sacrificed to Miss Armitage’s enthusiasm. She threaded and re-threaded the machine and made Miss Seeton thread it, too. She wound bobbins, and explained how they had to fit into the neat metal pocket under the stitch plate, and how the thread must be pulled up to begin sewing. She treadled with energy and speed, spoke of bicycles, and made Miss Seeton treadle quite as fast before she would let her stop. Miss Seeton took a sketchpad and, in her rare moments of freedom, made detailed notes and diagrams.

  It was strange how, even using two hands, it was not easy to keep the edge straight.

  “Sticky tape,” Miss Armitage prescribed, unable to watch Miss Seeton’s struggle and not interfere. “Lots of people use it to guide the edge. Fold one long edge under to make it more visible—thicker—and once you’ve had enough practice you might not need it anyway.” She rose to her feet, suppressing the urge to show how it should be done. “Practice makes perfect—and remember what I told you about unthreading the machine.”

  “Snip it at the top and pull the whole length through,” recited Miss Seeton dutifully. “It must never be pulled backwards because of...tension. And fluff.”

  “Good girl.” Miss Armitage patted her on the shoulder. “You’ve got it. Don’t waste your thread on practice sewing until you can manage a straight line. And then—the world’s your oyster! We’ll see something splendid from you for the mural map, I’m sure.”

  “Or perhaps even the quilt,” suggested Miss Seeton, her spirits lightening as her friend—so competent, but mak
ing one feel so inadequate—made her farewells.

  Left alone, Miss Seeton sighed when the pillowcase drifted yet again to one side of the stitch plate and the row of holes described a gentle curve. “Sticky tape,” Miss Seeton told herself, and hurried to the bureau.

  Miss Seeton always felt that, clever as it was, sticky tape of whatever brand she bought was undeniably quick and easy to do, and almost impossible to undo. But this was no parcel to be wrapped: it was a flat metal plate to be marked. She fetched her ruler and measured five-eighths of an inch. She marked it. She fetched scissors, cut the tape, folded, stuck. She settled back in the chair and held the pillowcase as steady as she could.

  Perhaps (she decided) the fabric was too large for a novice. It was now full of holes, no use probably even as a duster now. Cutting it in half could not hurt. She cut a straight edge and settled down again to treadle.

  Good. Things were definitely improving. That line of empty stitching might almost be straight, if you ignored the beginning and the end. Miss Seeton cut it off, and treadled again. Yes, that was better. One could always use the cut strips for tying plants back. She made a third attempt. The sticky tape unstuck, and curled back on itself.

  “Bother,” said Miss Seeton. “Just when it seemed to be working.” She measured another length of tape, stuck it down, and threw the first piece, no longer sticky and dusted with tiny particles of fabric fluff, into the bin.

  Definitely an improvement, she decided after the creation of a large bundle of garden ties and the exhaustion of several feet of sticky tape. How clever of Mr. Eggleden to make her a new belt for her machine! How kind of Miss Armitage to spare the time to help!

  And then she looked more closely at the stitch plate, and the black enamel of the main body of the machine. She had been so closely focused on the fabric and the needle that everything else had seemed unimportant.

  “Oh,” said Miss Seeton. “Oh, dear.”

  Chapter Seven

  MISS SEETON, ANXIOUS to repair domestic damage before Martha noticed, hurried next morning to the post office. People stared as she entered. The Nuts, snubbed yesterday by Mrs. Wyght, had drunk their tea and, stimulated by sugar and indignation, hurried to spread the news of Miss Seeton’s latest infamy. As nobody saw her after hearing the news, speculation persisted into the next day. Some said it was nonsense, others that they wouldn’t put anything past her—no arguing with facts—and Dan Eggleden did really ought to know better than to encourage her in her madness. Whips! Straitjackets! (This, extrapolated from the mis-overheard mention of canvas.) Bondage!

  Emmy Putts at the grocery counter was intrigued. Her friend Maureen from the George sometimes confessed to having a Thing about black leather, this being what had first drawn her to her Kawasaki-riding Wayne. Emmy wondered if there might be something in it. Maureen had a steady boyfriend; Emmy did not. But if old folks like Dan Eggleden and Miss Seeton enjoyed it, did that mean young lively folk would not?

  “Stop your daydreaming, Emmeline Putts,” said Mrs. Stillman. “You’ll be mincing your fingers into the bacon if you aren’t careful. That’s far more than Mrs. Spice wanted.”

  Emmy mumbled inaudibly. As the postmaster’s wife spoke again, the bell over the door jangled and Miss Seeton walked in.

  “No, no, you go first,” everyone invited. Was she about to ask for a coil of rope, rubber boots, or (a general thrill) even more electric batteries?

  Miss Seeton smiled thanks to all, and approached the general counter. “I should like a small bottle of vodka, please,” she said. “And a packet of cotton wool.”

  Sensation, muted until she completed her purchases, erupting as the door jangled shut behind her. With everybody trying to talk at once it was a while before a general consensus could be reached, but in the end it seemed the Nuts might have had the right of it after all. Cotton wool—that’d be for the chloroform, once she’d got ’em drunk on vodka, that having no taste. Easy to slip it in someone’s drink and catch ’em unawares. Half a bottle’d be more than enough for them not used to it.

  “You be warned, Emmeline Putts,” said Mrs. Spice. “If Miss Seeton asks you in for a cup of tea or an orange squash, you say no!”

  In Sweetbriars Miss Seeton poured vodka into a saucer and, tearing off a small piece of cotton wool, dabbled it damp and gently began rubbing at the sticky residue on her sewing machine. How fortunate that it came off with so little effort, despite having had all night to dry out. The newspaper was right. Vodka had no unpleasant smell, and restrained by the cotton wool did not drip, stain, or smear. Far more acceptable for this cherished item than any of Martha’s patent cleaners, which for general scrubbing and scouring did very well, but for enamel decorated with flowered garlands seemed too great a risk. As for Cousin Flora’s mother’s 1876 Enquire Within Upon Everything—where should Emily Seeton, a century later, obtain such ingredients as roche alum, powdered whiting, or rottenstone?

  She packed her cleaning things away, and lowered the refurbished machine into its counterweighted hollow. It had all worked out splendidly, even if she must not allow it to happen again. But Martha need never know—and the sun was coming out. Miss Seeton closed the lid of the cabinet, replaced the cherry-wood box, and assembled her sketching gear. Today she would do better at Summerset Cottage. It would be so much quieter, the builders having been sent to other jobs...

  She was therefore surprised to be greeted, as she drew the first outlines, by a loud cry that was almost a shriek. “Miss Seeton!” An exuberant head poked from a downstairs window. An arm waved a frantic Come in! gesture. “Miss Seeton!”

  Miss Seeton recognised both the head, and the exuberance. She had first met Dr. Euphemia Braxted of Brettenden Museum during the excavation of the small Roman temple at Rytham Hall. Dr. Braxted, given to flinging her arms about for emphasis, had this time settled for one quick wave and several cries, the window being hardly large enough for more. “Miss Seeton! Do hurry!”

  Miss Seeton slipped the sketchbook into her capacious handbag. With her umbrella to balance her as she picked her way along the crumbling path, she hurried to meet her friend. It was clear from Euphemia’s demeanour that more than a casual welcome had been intended, and like all good teachers Miss Seeton approved of enthusiasm. She hoped it wasn’t for something historical she wouldn’t understand.

  “Lovely to see you—come through here!” Dr. Braxted grabbed her visitor by the arm and tugged her across the panelled hall into a small but stately reception room. Miss Seeton sidestepped chunks of plaster, and tried not to breathe in puffs of dust.

  “There!” cried Euphemia, dropping Miss Seeton’s arm and flinging both hers wide. “You’re an artist. What do you make of that?”

  Miss Seeton stared. On the wall opposite, surrounded by remnants of plaster, peering into the room and glaring—at her—was the unmistakeable face of Henry VIII.

  “Good gracious,” was all she could find to say.

  Dr. Braxted clapped her hands. “Splendid, isn’t it? I’ve only just cleared the face—you can tell from the position there’s more to come—but it looks as if we might have a full-panel portrait of Elizabeth I’s father!” As a young woman Euphemia had been a redhead, though the fire had faded now to pale copper.

  “It’s—it’s remarkable,” said Miss Seeton uneasily.

  “Makes you uneasy?” Dr. Braxted chuckled. “Me, too. Never my favourite character. When he was young and glamorous, before he started putting on weight and throwing wives away like a bored child with its toys, I suppose he had something going for him—but those beady little eyes do remind me of a child plotting more than ordinary mischief.”

  “From what I recall of various portraits it is an accurate likeness,” said Miss Seeton, with reluctance. She stepped back a few paces and considered the face again. “Which makes it all the more remarkable—that anyone should be willing to marry him, that is. Except that of course his marriages were mostly political, I believe.”

  “Until lust got the better o
f him—but if he hadn’t chased after Anne Boleyn we would never have had our Gloriana.” Dr. Braxted shuddered. “Imagine! The country ruled by that sickly Protestant fanatic Edward—or that neurotic Roman fanatic Mary—why, it doesn’t bear thinking about. No Raleigh, no Drake—no speech at Tilbury—no Shakespeare...”

  Miss Seeton tried to imagine it. She sighed. Euphemia ignored her.

  “The Colvedens won’t like it, but they’ll have to lump it. This painting could be unique. The rest of it must be uncovered with great care, and it will take a long time. With limited funding, and so few assistants...I might rustle up a couple of students, but that’ll be the lot. This is priceless, Miss Seeton. There will be photographs to take, measurements to be made, sketches...You were starting to sketch outside in the lane—that’s when I spotted you. This house isn’t going to run away. There’s always tomorrow—but for all I know, now it’s been uncovered to the air, the paint might dry out and flake off overnight. I’ve brought my camera, of course—I wish the museum could afford a Polaroid—but things can go wrong, so would you mind jotting down what we have so far?”

  Miss Seeton opened her bag, and prepared to sketch the scowling face of Henry VIII. Would she ever complete her picture of Summerset Cottage? “And I wonder why,” she murmured to herself.

  “Why here in Plummergen? Goodness knows. There’ll be some digging through the archives on this project—but I’m no expert. First thing I’ll do once I’m back in Brettenden is telephone my sister.”

  Miss Seeton had met Dr. Eugenia Braxted, Euphemia’s identical twin, who much preferred the less strenuous and less muddy aspects of history and worked at the British Museum in an office crammed with papers, parchments, and dusty vellum rolls.

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Seeton said absently, still sketching, “but what I really meant was—why is the house called ‘Summerset Cottage’? It is, after all, in Kent, not Somerset. One could understand had Sussex been the name—Sussex being our neighbouring county, and boundaries can change—but so far as I know it has always been assumed that the volatility of spelling in past centuries is the reason for the Summerset misspelling. But it has never been clear why.” Again she glanced at Henry, and returned to her work wishing she had brought coloured pencils as well as graphite. She jotted notes about shades and tones. “Was not one of Henry’s numerous brothers-in-law called Somerset?”