by K. Velk
“I don’t think any of them sound quite like what I am looking for – but what are ‘suffragettes and bluestockings’?”
“Mostly the same thing, come to think of it. Intellectual types, agitators for votes for women and ‘artistes’ and such. Here now, have you not seen a paper? The King signed votes for women over twenty-one into law just t’other day. Haven’t they been goin’ on about women’s suffrage over in the States for years? Our women have been beating us bloody with the fact that American women have had the vote on the same terms as men since 1921.”
“Oh right.” Miles had slipped again! He hadn’t read anything other than the headlines on the newspapers in front of the tobacconist’s in Tipton since he had arrived in England.
“Do any of these bluestocking girls work at Sessions?”
Mr. Hatley snorted. “Not bloody likely. Who’d hire one?”
When Miles returned to the wall the following day he had with him a pair of solid leather gloves on long-term loan from Mr. Hatley. He was worried that Tom and Ginger would be mad at him for getting them in trouble, or, worse, that they would be disgusted by his having been sent to rest after just one day on the job. Miles crept quietly to the work site through the morning mist as though he was hoping not be noticed, but Tom stepped right up to greet him.
“I didn’t know you were so green,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “You should’ve told me so I could’ve broke you in easy like.”
“It was my fault really. I’m sorry Ginger,” Miles said to the silent figure leaning on a shovel a short distance away. “I’m still getting used to the way things are here, including some English names.” Ginger looked puzzled. Why would anyone be amused by such a commonplace? But he came over and shook hands, rather cautiously given the state of Miles’ palms. It seemed all was forgiven.
Miles was assigned to an “easy” job that day, raking up loose mortar and bits of stone and hauling them off to a waste pile. He raked and picked up stones at a pace that he thought he could keep up for the next nine hours without killing himself. As the day wore on, though, he caught himself looking often down the great long length of the ruined wall. It was a depressing sight.
“How long will it take to get all the repairs made?” Miles asked Tom.
“Well, most sections are better than I had any right to expect. I’d say we’ve got about 100 feet or so that we’ve got to take back down to foundation and build up again – and there’s a couple of doorways to be remade, and one corner. Perhaps a month, if the weather cooperates and,” he added archly, “every man puts his back to it.”
Miles’ heart sank. A month piling stones on a wall? And with two people who were certainly not the ones he had been sent to find? When he had first learned that he had been ordained to go time traveling, he thought the whole thing would be done in a day or two. Now it had been nearly two weeks and there was no end in sight. Miles heaved a sigh and Tom mistook his meaning.
“It’s no good looking forward nor back on this kind of work, lad. Just take it stone by stone. That’s the way to get through it and do a good job besides.”
22. A Wall Rises, A Heart Crumbles
Miles’ life quickly took on a pattern after he returned to work with Tom and Ginger. For five and a half days a week, he rose early, took breakfast in the Lodge with the other outside staff, then it was out to work on the wall.
Every night for the first two weeks or so, when he fell into his bed, he was sore nearly to the point of paralysis – but a turnaround followed quickly. By the third week, he could heft heavy stones on to the top course of the wall without trouble. Tom Pauling increasingly reviewed Miles’ work with nods of approval. Just one such nod would make Miles’ day and sometimes he got several. Miles ate like a draft horse at the long oak tables where staff meals were served and he carried a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheddar cheese, and hard-boiled eggs for his lunch every day. On Saturday afternoons, just after their pay packets were handed out at the Estate Office (his pay included all his meals, any uniforms required, and one pound a week cash money), Jack and Miles went back to Peppermores’ cottage for overnight.
Miles insisted on paying half of his wages each Saturday to Mrs. Peppermore. For that sum, in addition to his weekend meals and lodging, Mrs. Peppermore provided clothes (remade neatly from Jack’s old things), a hot bath on Saturday night, in a galvanized tub behind a curtain in front of the stove, and a weekly hair trim. (Though she hadn’t openly criticized Miles’ longish hair when he had arrived, she didn’t waste any time in suggesting that it be trimmed). She apologized each time she took Miles’ money but as she said, she was hardly in a place where she could refuse it.
Westfield was the next village in line for electrical service and a favorite topic of conversation among the Peppermores was which electric appliances they would buy with their savings when they “got the electric.” There would be the radio, and a “Hoover” eventually. Jack thought a fan should be the first purchase. He didn’t like the heat and the attic loft did get hot.
Miles thought the Peppermores enjoyed contemplating these modest possibilities the way people back in Texas liked to daydream about what they would do if they won the lottery.
His foster family never wavered in their kindness to Miles, but a few weeks into his stay, it became clear that something was not quite right. The good cheer, which had brightened his first days with them, had dimmed to vanishing. Mrs. Peppermore was perpetually frowning and distracted and Susannah went to work on her chairs as soon as meals were over instead of lingering over tea. None of the Peppermores spoke to Miles about any particular trouble, but one Saturday night after Jack blew out the lamp in the their attic bedroom, Miles asked what was wrong.
“I don’t know as I should say anything about it,” Jack said after a long pause. “If it were any one but you, I wouldn’t, it’s a sore subject, – but you’re one of us now aren’t you?”
The words went right to Miles’ heart.
“And you’re not a talker… You’re watchful and quiet. What I tell you won’t go no further…”
“Of course not.”
“All right then. You know how Dr. Slade was so taken with Susannah?
“What do you mean ‘was’?”
“That’s just it. Haven’t you noticed? Lately he’s disappeared. Since ‘round the time we went up to Sessions.”
“You don’t think that has anything to do with it?”
“Gar, no! How could it? But his mother came to stay with him about then. I’m sure that’s what’s behind it.”
“Well, when she goes home again, maybe things will go back the way they were.”
“I’m not so sure. Dr. Slade’s an only child and his father’s long dead. It’d have to be a strong man to go against a mother.”
Miles thought back to his last encounter with Dr. Slade, when he had examined his scratched and swollen hands. He had also used that occasion to snip out the stitches in Miles’ forehead, at last, but then he had hurried off. Miles hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but the Doctor had been more business-like than usual. Still, he couldn’t believe his feelings for Susannah had run cold so quickly.
“Jack, maybe I shouldn’t be telling this, but when I went with Dr. Slade to Tipton that day, to get my bike fixed, I felt sure he was buying a bicycle-built-for-two for Susannah. He was all mysterious about this ‘special order.’ He said I would find out about it the next Saturday.”
“Well, no bicycle-built-for-two has appeared, has it?” Jack sounded disgusted. “I think his mother showed up just then. Surprise visit, apparently – though Ma’s suspicious of Miss Musgrove – you remember, his housekeeper?”
“Yeah. I remember. What could she have to do with it?”
“Oh, she’s an interfering old bat. She knew that Dr. Slade was sweet on Susannah and she probably thought it was her Christian duty to tell his mother.”
“Is it because Susannah is blind?”
“I’m sure that’s part of it. But
I think worse than bein’ blind is the fact that Susannah’s the daughter of a saddler.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing – if what’s wanted is a saddle or a harness – but for a daughter-in-law only a gentlewoman will do for Mrs. Slade. Of course, Ma’s terrible cut up – maybe even worse than Susannah. She never said so out loud, but she had been counting on Dr. Slade to marry Susannah. We all had.”
“I was sure that’s what he wanted too.” It made Miles uneasy to think he could have misread Dr. Slade so thoroughly. What else was he getting wrong?
“Or did for a bit anyway,” Jack said. “Of course I’ve told Ma that I’ll look after her and Susannah. We’ll come out all right in the end.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, she got all weepy like she does. She said it wasn’t fair on me, just a lad, to be the man of the house and on like that.”
Miles’ heart went out to his friend. He knew that this is exactly what Jack had been for years already.
“What’d you say?”
“I said there was lots worse things than that.”
23. The Fishers Return
Akind of awakening jolt, like the bump of an airplane’s landing gear as it hits the runway, passed through Quarter Sessions on word that Sir James and Lady Fisher had returned. Miles hadn’t seen their car come through the big wrought-iron gates at the front of the property, but he heard about the event inside of fifteen minutes of its occurrence. Tom had looked up from the stone he was shaping and noticed the house banner being changed – to the one that meant that the family was in residence.
Miles was instantly lifted from the little rut into which he had fallen. His summons to meet his employers might come at any moment!
For the following two days, he tried to keep his clothes clean as he worked. On the third day, just as he had decided that he was wasting his time and energy trying to stay neat, the call came – and in a way that nearly stopped his heart.
Miles and Ginger were cleaning up their worksite at the end of the day, bent over the rubble and debris, when a girl appeared.
She wore a black–and-white maid’s uniform of the sort that Miles had only ever seen in the movies. He gasped when he looked up from the broken bits of stone and saw her crossing the lawn.
Ginger saw his reaction and elbowed him in the ribs. “Pinch me Miles!” he called raffishly. “I’m havin’ a vision!”
The girl was short and with a squarish build, like a five-pound bag of sugar on a grocery store shelf, but she was bright looking and pretty. Her black hair curled out from under her white cap and her dark eyes snapped at the boys.
“Which one of you is Miles McTavish?” she asked impatiently.
“I might be,” Ginger said. “More important – who are you?”
Miles stepped forward. “I’m Miles.”
“I thought so,” she said. “They said you was an American – and nothing about you resembling a bit o’ string.” Ginger dropped the shovel on which he had been leaning and clutched his heart with both hands.
“Grimmy sent me out here to tell you that you’re to come to the ‘ouse after you’ve had your dinner and washed up. Lady Fisher wants to see ye.”
“That’s right,” said Ginger. “He can see Lady Fisher and maybe I can see you.”
So much for Letty in the laundry, Miles thought.
“Have either of you got a cigarette?” The girl asked, her eyes sliding from face to face.
“No, sorry. But I know where I could get you one,” Ginger said. “What’s your name by the way?”
“Never mind about my name. ‘Ave you got one or not?”
Miles shook his head. “I don’t smoke. Sorry.”
She rolled her eyes and stalked back in the direction of the house, adding, as a shouted afterthought, “Grimmy says you’re to make yourself presentable before you come up, be there at eight and don’t keep ‘em waiting!”
Miles went cold: almost nothing had happened to advance his quest for more than a month. Now, in an instant, while he was minding his own business raking up bits of stray stone, here was a girl the right age – maybe the one – and a summons to meet Lady Fisher!
“Well, she’s a nice piece – though a bit hard,” Ginger said, watching her departure appreciatively. “But that’s London girls for you.”
“Is she from London?”
Ginger goggled. “I thought you was in London before you came here?” Miles winced. It wasn’t always easy to keep his story straight.
“Yeah, but I’m not so good yet with the accents you people have over here. There seem to be so many.”
“Well that girl’s cockney, from East London sure as can be. I suppose your own people there were more posh, West-End types?”
Miles didn’t answer. The girl’s address didn’t matter, and he needed to think about what he had to do next. His hands and feet went cold. He was going to have to clean up at the pump as best he could. He was going to have to find a clean shirt and comb his hair and he was going to have to hold it together.
24. Out of the Fire and Into the Drawing Room
Though it was still summer, Miles felt he should wear his jacket to the big house. It was too wooly for the warm weather, and it seemed to have shrunk through the shoulders since he had last put it on, but it was the closest he could come to getting dressed up. It had been crumpled at the bottom of the haversack for weeks and the tight fit pulled the wrinkles a little straighter, at least. He found the copy of Shakespeare’s Comedies that Professor Davies had sent back with him. Annie Laurie Davies had wisely drafted a few different versions of a letter of introduction for Miles, since they didn’t know exactly when he would arrive in England. Thankfully, there was one that was appropriate for just about the ten years that had passed since Professor Davies had left Sessions. Miles folded this one inside the book and looked at himself in the tiny mirror in the Bothy.
His face was sunburned and the J-shaped train-track scar on his forehead was prominent as a cattle brand.
“I’ll walk up with you,” Jack said soothingly. Miles was grateful. Jack was as solid as a brick. As the boys approached the house, they met again the girl who had summoned Miles. She was leaning by the kitchen door, partially hidden by a vine-covered trellis. She was still in her maid’s uniform and talking confidentially with another girl of around the same age. This second girl was tall and pale with straw-colored hair. The girls were passing a cigarette between them.
“So you’ve come as bidden. Good boy,” said the dark-haired girl.
“Yes,” Miles managed. “What’s your name, by the way?”
She took a long pull on the cigarette and exhaled slowly while she studied Miles and Jack. “Violet Shivers,” she said at last. “And this vision of loveliness ‘ere is my friend and colleague Rhonda Tiplady.”
Rhonda curtsied theatrically.
Jack took off his cap. “I’m Jack.”
Rhonda giggled at him. “Ahm chahmed, Ahm sure,” she said in a pantomimed upper-class accent.
Violet took another long pull on the cigarette while she looked Miles up and down. “You look like yer ready to jump outta yer skin.”
“Well, I haven’t ever met a real ‘lady’ before,” he answered, instantly regretting what had to be the lamest sentence any boy had ever spoken to a girl.
“And what are we then, cod fish?” Rhonda delivered this gem with a playful shove at Violet.
“No, no. He, he means a proper lady,” Jack added.
Violet looked at Rhonda with a deadpan expression. “Better and better, aren’t they Rhon? We’ve got a pair o’ silver-tongued country devils on our ‘ands.”
“No,” Jack stammered. “You know what I mean. The gentry…”
“Never mind.” Violet’s appraising eyes softened a little. “I know what you meant. We’re just ‘avin a bit o’ fun.” She dropped the tiny stub of cigarette to the cobbles and ground it down with her toe. “You needn’t worry about Lady Fisher,”
she said in a more kindly tone. “She’s nice as pie. But you’d best get in there or you’ll be late and then you’ll catch it from Grimmy.”
Miles wanted desperately to talk more with Violet and Rhonda. Who were they? When had they arrived? But the timing, as usual it seemed, was impossible.
It was a small mercy that Mr. Scott and not Mrs. Grimwald had been assigned to escort Miles in to meet his employer, although even he seemed more formal than he had previously. “What’s that in your hand?” he asked, disapprovingly, as they climbed up the backstairs.
“A book.”
“I can see that.”
“Professor Davies took it with him to America, from the library here. He didn’t mean to. He asked me to return it to Lady Fisher. There’s a letter in it from him to her as well.”
“Hmm. So that’s where that volume went. My suspicions had run down that line. Still, the letter ought to please her. Are you ready?”
They had emerged from the unadorned back passage onto a thick, red carpet in a long, wide hallway. The hall was hung with massive oil paintings in golden frames and lit by a long succession of multi-armed brass chandeliers. Miles swallowed hard.
“I’m not quite sure how I’m expected to act,” he said.
“Don’t talk too much and don’t be too familiar. Don’t speak until you are spoken to. Don’t assume that polite inquiries indicate genuine interest. Don’t blather on about yourself. Americans seem to have difficulty with that.” Mr. Scott knocked softly on a heavy, dark door and stepped straight through.
“Miles McTavish, Milady.”
Miles took a step forward and found himself in the most beautiful room he had ever seen. He very nearly gasped. It was as enormous as a hotel lobby, at once stately and serene. On the far wall loomed three tall and wide leaded-glass windows, made up of thousands of little diamond panes. The setting sun now warbled through the ancient glass, casting pools and curlicues of sunlight on the celery-green carpet and the mahogany paneling on the wall opposite.
