by Joan Smith
“It came on her suddenly, after Bobby was born.”
“How long ago did she die?”
“A little over two years ago now. Mr. Palin has been married about a year to his present wife.”
“There is no portrait of the present Mrs. Palin yet.”
“She arranged for it while she was in London last time. She has an artist coming here to take her likeness—he should arrive today, she tells me.”
There was no warmth in her voice when she spoke of her mistress. We backtracked to look at the portraits we had skipped over in our haste to view April Palin.
While we were still in the gallery, Mrs. Palin opened the door and entered. She was accompanied by a young gentleman, dark, foreign-looking, very handsome. She nodded to us, but did not introduce her companion. The two of them walked along, talking about the portraits, in French. I had not revealed that I spoke French, considering it an unlikely accomplishment for a servant, but I listened. I overheard that the gentleman was from France, a Monsieur Arouet, who had come to take madame’s likeness.
They discussed the family tradition of the wife’s posing in a particular stance, which Mrs. Palin wished to continue. Then the Frenchman asked, “Will you wear that ugly necklace, madame?”
“Do you not like it?” she asked, both of them speaking in French all the while.
“It would be a desecration to encumber your beautiful white neck with such an atrocity,” he told her, with a gallant bow. She laughed, a low, throaty sound, intimate, almost seductive would not be too strong a word.
The laugh caused Mrs. Steyne to poker up and turn sharply about to leave the gallery. I was extremely sorry indeed that I had to accompany her.
“Miss Bingham,” Mrs. Palin said to me as I hastened past, “how does the work go on?” She spoke English to me, of course.
“Very well, thank you, ma’am,” I said, curtsying.
“Good. You must not take it too seriously. Just see that Bobby gets plenty of exercise, and doesn’t hurt himself. Such a sweet child really. It is a pity...” Her voice trailed off, then she turned to explain to the artist, again in French, very nonchalantly, that her husband’s son was fou—crazy, or insane.
I felt a strong compulsion to set her right, but of course was not supposed to understand her words. I left them, just turning back at the doorway to see madame place her hand on the artist’s arm, to lead him on to look at other portraits.
“Will you show me the parapet at the back of the house?” I asked Mrs. Steyne. “Mr. Palin particularly asked me to keep Bobby away from it, in case he should fall.”
“It is a new notion he’s taken into his head. I cannot believe it is dangerous, only two stories high, and with a good strong railing,” she said as we mounted the stairs. The key was kept on a ledge above the doorframe. She unlocked the door, and we stopped out onto the balcony. The view of the courtyard below was pretty, with a flagged floor and large ornamental pots, which would contain flowers in a warmer season. The balcony too would be pleasant in spring. It was large enough to contain chairs and a table, though it did not contain them at this time.
I walked to the concrete railing, regarding it closely. “This looks perfectly sturdy,” I said.
“It’s safe as a church, but if it will set his mind at rest, I keep it locked up for him. He worries about the child too much.”
We reentered, the door was locked and the key returned to its ledge, and the tour was over. Mrs. Steyne went to the kitchen, and I went to see if Bobby was back from the stable yet, waiting for me in the nursery. As he was not, I spent a few minutes looking through the toys for something to amuse him. It was while I was there that I had my first encounter with Miss Martin.
The woman glided silently into the nursery and stood observing me with steely gray eyes, her face cold, expressionless. She was a large woman, nearly straight up and down, like a box. “Madame wishes to speak to you, Miss Bingham,” she said. “In her room, now.”
I followed her along the hallway, turning into the main part of the house. I was curious to hear what madame might have to say, equally curious to see her chamber. Mrs. Palin had created for herself a bower of femininity in this masculine-appearing house. Her room was done in whites and pale greens, while an aura of strength, substantialness was added by the use of gleaming mahogany furnishings. I had envisioned white and gold things, with legs delicately turned, in the style of the French Louis. She was reclining on a chaise longue by the window, which was hung in pale-green velvet, the draperies pulled back with twisted gold ties.
“You may leave us, Martin,” she said to her woman. Martin stared one last time at me with her unblinking eyes, then left.
“We have not had a chance to become properly acquainted,” madame began, pointing to a chair beside her chaise longue. “Sit down, Miss Bingham. I like to know all our people, be on a first-name basis with the girls. What is your name, my dear?”
“Jane. Jane Bingham, Mrs. Palin.”
“What a nice plain sensible name. It suits you.”
I wondered what her first name was. Nothing so plain, I felt sure. She deserved to be an Amanda, an Arabella—something fancy, glamorous. How very elegant she was, reclining in her boudoir, while the scent of her perfume settled like a fog around her.
“I see Mrs. Steyne was showing you the gallery. Are you interested in art?”
“Yes. That is—I don’t know much about it, but the pictures are very pretty,” I said, making my reply indicate a lack of learning.
“I am having my portrait done. My husband wants it. That is why the gentleman was downstairs. He is the artist, a Monsieur Arouet, from Paris. He is very well known, famous.”
I nodded and smiled my pleasure at her condescension in telling me this, while wondering at the back of my mind why she had really summoned me.
“What did you think of our rogues’ gallery?” she asked.
It seemed unlikely I would have many chances to pick madame’s brains. I raised the point of paramount interest to me. “I was interested in the family history and heirlooms, the diamond necklace and the Arnheim mourning ring.”
“Poor Mrs. Steyne, I expect she told you that foolish superstitious story about the bad-luck ring. Don’t pay her any heed. The servants here are walking pieces of ignorance, always spouting nonsense. But you look a nice, sensible girl. My husband says you are, and he is a good judge of women. What do you think of Bobby?” she asked, just allowing her eyes to flicker to mine at the question. It was hard to tell, but I thought I saw some sharp interest in them, some clue that this was her real reason in befriending me.
“He is rambunctious, a little out of control, I think.”
“A sweet child, but unfortunately a moonling. His mama, I believe, was very ill before he was born. The measles—it will often cause that unfortunate loss of mind. He is totally unmanageable. It is a hard job you have undertaken, Miss Bingham. Don’t let him impose on your good nature. Be firm with him, and see he does not jump out a window or under a horse. That is all we can hope for, to keep him alive and out of mischief. Don’t hesitate to let me know if he gives you trouble. Robert is overly lenient with him, but I can usually manage my husband without too much difficulty. We women have our little ways,” she added playfully.
“He doesn’t give me much trouble.”
“You seem very efficient. I am sorry I did not get to meet you in London, but I was so busy convincing Monsieur Arouet to come to us that I had not a moment free. He will not often leave the city, but my husband would not hear of letting me stay on in London alone for two whole weeks. That is how long it should take.”
The oldsters have the disconcerting habit of being correct. Aunt Harriet had often told me the mistress ought not to try to make a friend of her servants, and as usual, she was right. I could think of no single reply to make to Mrs. Palin’s overtures of friendship. “Bobby is at the stables, is he?” she asked.
“Yes. Mr. Palin said I could let him spend a little time there
each day.”
“An excellent idea. He is happiest there, with the grooms and horses. Let him go as often as he likes. It is good for him, the fresh air and exercise.”
“Mr. Palin mentioned once a day, to give me a break.”
“My dear, it hardly matters where he is, as long as he is safe and happy. He is very tiring, not being able to talk or communicate at all.”
“He can communicate a little, a few words.”
She looked at me with an intent, searching look. “The last girl had some idea he was learning to talk. Do you think it possible?”
“Not impossible. He says a few words, at least.”
“He is over four years old. He should be talking well by now, if he were ever going to. Of course my husband and myself are most eager for any improvement. Do let me know at once if he shows any promise.”
“Of course I will.”
“We must not get our hopes raised too high. I am sure if anyone can teach him, you can, Miss Bingham. Jane—may I call you Jane?” she asked, then laughed at her own condescension.
“I would be happy, madame.”
“Good. We are going to be friends, Jane. I feel it. All the other girls here are so abominably ignorant, and though Robert does not realize it, it is really quite lonesome for me, so isolated as we are here. It will be nice to have a young girl to talk to. Are you comfortable in your room? Warm enough? The winds of autumn are fierce here, and there is no grate in your room. Robert should put grates in the servants’ rooms. Here,” she said, reaching out for a lovely mauve mohair shawl that was draped over the back of her chaise longue. “Take this. Wear it about your shoulders when you are chilly.”
“I couldn’t take it, ma’am. It is too valuable,” I replied, astonished at her offering it.
“I have dozens of them. Take it, or Robert will scold me for having bought a new one in London. I found the most beautiful indigo shade I could not resist. Take it, I insist.” She stuffed the thing into my hands, commanding me to keep it.
I thanked her and left, walking back through the corridors to my room in a quandary. It almost seemed like a bribe, yet she had not asked anything of me. She had been all friendliness and concern for my welfare, and it was very strange indeed that I should mistrust her so thoroughly. Rosalie had not, at first. Her first response had been to admire madame.
But I was prejudiced, knowing she had accused my sister of theft. Yes, I was one leap ahead of Rosalie in that respect. I suspected her from the start, and disliked very much having that lovely mohair shawl, reeking of her perfume, in my room. I wrapped it in paper and put it in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Chapter Six
When Bobby returned from the stables, he was accompanied by an animal that belonged to the feline family, but mistook itself for a dog. It was a small tabby, something beyond a kitten, not yet quite a cat. It followed at his heels, frisking about, begging for food, willing to engage in roughhouse tumbling in a way I never saw a cat do before. He called it Huck. Later, I learned from Molly that the animal belonged by rights to Hucker, a groom. It was Bobby’s abbreviated way of saying Hucker’s cat. He always shortened things verbally, selecting the dominant sound and forgetting the rest.
The child, as well as the cat, was dirty. Both had about the same love of soap and water. When our dinner was brought up, I noticed Molly had added a knife and fork to Bobby’s plate. He cast a glance of loathing at these utensils before picking up his spoon in his customary manner, like a savage. It was well he was so fond of his food; otherwise I am fairly sure he would have left the meal on his plate before sinking to the use of the knife and fork. When he at last realized I was not going to give him the spoon, he reluctantly took up the fork. Even Bobby did not contemplate eating mashed potatoes and gravy with his fingers.
About the only remark he addressed to me throughout the meal was “Bad Tummy,” which he repeated a few times, with sulks. I reminded him on each occasion that I was Miss Bingham. I took no notice of his fit of ill humor, but watched from a chair in the corner while he played with Huck. Later, I had the cat taken to the kitchen to be fed, at which point Bobby decided he would forgive me, for the shadows of evening were lengthening, and like any child, he wished for some human warmth and attention before retiring. The reconciliation was achieved by presenting me with a drawing of Huck, which he had been working on in the corner.
It was at this point that Mr. Palin came to the door to visit with his son. “How are things going with you?” he asked.
“We have had a few fallings-out, but at the moment we are back on terms,” I replied. “Bobby has just given me this present,” I said, showing him the picture of the cat.
“A good likeness of Huck,” he said, smiling at it.
It was a good likeness. The child had a definite talent for catching the essence of things in his drawings. The cat had a smug expression on its face, a rather wide mouth, and a wider-than-usual face. “He draws very well for his age,” I complimented.
“He always liked it, ever since he was big enough to grab a pencil. You must have noticed how oddly he holds it.”
“He now holds his pencil properly. It is only his spoon he clutches onto in a strange way. I am working to correct it.” Already I felt a compulsion to defend my charge. Bobby was standing with us, patiently waiting for his father’s attention. To include him in the conversation, I said, “Get your pictures to show your father, Bobby.”
The child was not at all interested in this suggestion, but when I got the book for Mr. Palin, Bobby entered happily into the examination of his work. I pointed out those sketches of horses, for they were the best done, with great detail.
“It is really remarkable, the accuracy of his eye,” Mr. Palin said, nodding at the pages. “Amazing how he has got the harnessing exactly right—bridle, bit and so on. It is englarged out of proportion, but perfectly accurate and complete.”
“He notices what interests him, I suppose.”
“That must be it.”
Bobby had long since availed himself of his father’s knee. “You can take a rest for a while if you like, Miss Bingham,” the father suggested. “Come back in half an hour or so.”
I was happy to see the father spent some time with his son. Knowing they would be busy in the kitchen preparing the family dinner, I went to my own room. I wrote my first letter to Aunt Harriet, telling her of my trip, and that I had not yet discovered anything much about Rosalie. I folded the sheet carefully and put it in the pocket of my skirt, lest the surreptitious visitor to my room make another call while I chanced to be out. This took the half hour till I must rejoin Bobby.
His father was just setting the boy down from his knee when I got there. “He looks better already,” he complimented me, with a look at the child’s neatly brushed hair and tidy outfit. “He seems happier too. I think you remind him of his most favored nursemaid, Miss Thompson. He has used her name a couple of times when he meant to refer to yourself, I believe.”
“Yes,” I answered, trying not to show any concern at being linked with Miss Thompson. “He called me Tummy at first. We have more or less agreed on Bingie for the present. I shall scold him into Miss Bingham soon.”
“Do what you can, but don’t ... don’t strain him beyond his limits. You understand my meaning. I want him to be happy.”
“Learning my name is not beyond his limits, Mr. Palin. In fact, I begin to think your son is more lazy than anything else. The servants wait on him to such an extent he can’t be bothered to stir his own tea.” I spoke in a bantering way, to show my good intentions.
He tried to smile, but the last, long look he directed on Bobby was far from happy. “Goodnight, son,” he said softly.
Bobby did not reply. He had turned to the bookshelf, forgetful of his visitor. He handed me a book and led me to the chair.
“Bingie sit,” he ordered.
Bingie sat, removed her glasses, and within two seconds Bobby landed on her knee, leafing through the book to a story a
bout a cat and a fox. The cat was called Miss Meow, but I was soon given to understand by repeated interruptions that in our version it was to be called Huck. At the story’s end, he was yawning. I pulled out my watch to see the hour. Bobby took it in his hands to examine it. Fearing for its safety, I held onto it myself, and let him look at it: I put it to his right ear, saying “Tick-tock,” making a game of it. He looked at me with utter disinterest, then took it and put it at his other ear. A look of surprise and delight alit on his face. “Tick-tock,” he repeated, laughing.
These peculiar reactions stymied me. Why did he show no reaction at all, then suddenly burst into laughter? That was when I made the most remarkable discovery of my visit thus far, though it had nothing to do with Rosalie. Bobby was deaf in his right ear. Repeated trials convinced me of it. I rethought my doings with him, and began to understand his apparently inexplicable behavior.
Sometimes he appeared to hear, and sometimes not. When one spoke to him from behind, he had no idea where the sound came from, for he heard from only one side, thus being deprived of a sense of direction. I made long and careful trials with the watch, holding it farther from his ear, concluding finally that he was totally deaf in the right ear, and had only partial hearing in the other. By experimenting with the watch at my own ears, I noticed that even his left ear had to have the watch brought up quite close before he heard.
His peculiar mixed-up language—he was repeating what bits of speech he heard, the strongly accented syllables. Perhaps even his interest in drawing and his pronounced eye for detail stemmed from this—a stronger use of sight, because he had so little of hearing. I felt as Columbus must have felt when he discovered a new world. What was not possible now, when I knew his problem? I would speak into his left ear, correct his speech, perhaps even be able to start teaching him to read. I was eager to tell Mr. Palin of my discovery, but at this hour he would be at dinner.
I put Bobby to bed, then went to my own room. I would not tell Mr. Palin till the next day. I would experiment all day tomorrow, and have definite proof, progress to show him on the next visit. I was so excited I lay awake planning moves to help the child, when I should have been planning how to discover what had happened to Rosalie. Still, I saw no reason to neglect the actual duty for which I was receiving a rather generous wage. If I could help an innocent child into the bargain, it would be impossible, inhuman, not to do it.
