The Trouble with Harriet

by Dorothy Cannell

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.” Lady Grizwolde actually leaned forward a little in her seat and cupped her chin in a slim, long-fingered hand. “What is it near?”

  “The closest town is Loetzinn.”

  “And is this Schonbrunn a picturesque place?”

  “The most beautiful place in the world!” Daddy now produced the handkerchief with a snowy flourish, and I found myself wondering if Frau Grundman had done his laundry for him while he stayed in her guest house.

  “Loetzinn, you said.” Her ladyship now appeared reflective. “Maybe I have heard or read about it. Doesn’t it have a rather beautiful church? A Roman Catholic one, that was built after the Second World War and is celebrated for its nave or stained-glass windows or some such thing?”

  “Alas, I have heretofore not been much of a churchgoer.” Daddy was now wielding the hanky with such vigor that the curtains stirred all the way across the room. “But now that my eyes are turned heavenward, I shall be more devout in my observances.” I held my breath waiting for him to sound off about his recent bereavement, but her ladyship spoke before he could say Harriet.

  “Was there some scandal—a fairly recent one—that made the newspapers? The priest absconding with the missionary money and running off to Monte Carlo to play the casinos? Or am I getting it mixed up with somewhere else?”

  “Does any of this ring a bell, Daddy?” I asked.

  “A what?” He might have been floating on the ceiling from the faraway sound of his voice, but he drifted back down to us after a couple of seconds and drew his pale eyes together over his Roman nose. “Some reprehensible happening occurring at a church in Loetzinn, is that what we are discussing? Nothing to do with choirboys, I hope. Or rude scribbles on the frescoes. My beloved Harriet would have been deeply distressed. She revered antiquities.”

  “Daddy, Lady Grizwolde—Phyllis—was talking about a robbery.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t money that disappeared.” She regarded him steadily. “Perhaps it was a chalice or a statue that wept when the clock struck a certain hour. I’m not very religious myself, but living here, on the grounds of an ancient monastery, it’s impossible not to become a little interested in ecclesiastical matters. But if you didn’t hear anything being right on the spot, I must have the place wrong. And yet”—she placed a finger between her perfectly arched black brows— “the name Loetzinn does seem to have stuck in my head.” Before Daddy could respond she continued, “And who, Morley, is this Harriet of whom you speak so fondly?”

  “The goddess of all earthly delights, a diamond of the utmost radiance, a flower such as the world’s greatest horticulturist could not hope to produce. Pardon me, Phyllis, but I tend to break down when speaking of her!”

  But never to be at a loss for words, I thought. Unkind of me. But to be fair, I was here to do a job, and unless choked with the hanky, Daddy would be in full flood for an hour. As he swallowed a noisy parade of sobs, I hastily provided a synopsis.

  “My father and Harriet met in Schonbrunn and fell deeply in love. Tragically, she was killed in a car accident. He arrived home last night with her ashes, which he has the sad duty of handing over to her relatives this afternoon.”

  “It goes without saying that my life ended with my adored one’s death!” Daddy was off and running, and there was no way I could step on his tongue without looking like the most unfeeling daughter alive. Her ladyship was the one who broke in on him.

  “Her ashes are in your house?” Was she making polite conversation? Or did her fastidiousness find the idea repellent?

  “Not presently,” he told her before I could open my mouth. “They’re on the front seat of Giselle’s car.”

  “In a nice little urn with a good tight lid,” I heard myself say.

  “Harriet often spoke of how she loved a run in the car.” Daddy’s eyes turned dreamily reminiscent. But I knew it would be only a matter of seconds before he remembered that she had met her death in one. And we would have the whole story of the trip to Koblenz. Luckily, the door opened, and Timothia Finchpeck came into the room with a bundle of magazines in her arms.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to find these, Phyllis.” Her whispery voice made me long for a hearing aid, but Lady Grizwolde barely turned her head in her direction.

  “That’s all right, Timmy. There’s no need to stand there looking like a fly to be swatted.”

  “They weren’t in your bedroom where you said they’d be.” The faintest flicker of defiance showed in Miss Finchpeck’s eyes. But what emanated most was a dreariness that seemed to sap so much of the color out of the green sofa and chintz chairs that they appeared almost as gray as she was. It was raining quite hard now, and a rumble or two of thunder indicated that it was likely we were in for a real storm. “I had to search all over the house for them, Phyllis, until I found them under the towels in your bathroom,” she said, handing over the magazines.

  “You should have come back before wearing yourself out” was the cool reply. However, looking at Lady Grizwolde, I was sure she knew that such wasn’t Miss Finchpeck’s way. Either from doggedness or a fear of looking stupid, the poor woman would never return empty-handed after being dispatched on an errand. My heart went out to her. What a horrible way to live! I didn’t like how Lady Grizwolde talked to her. But perhaps her ladyship had her own point of view. Maybe she thought Miss Finchpeck could have made a life for herself either through a career or marriage instead of installing herself at the Old Abbey like the ghost of a martyr from the days of the Reformation. Even so, there was such a thing as common kindness. I looked over at my father and felt a major pang of guilt. When we got home, I would let him talk about Harriet for as long as he liked and regardless of whether I reached the screaming point. It was, I thought a shade virtuously, what my mother would have wished.

  “But Timmy, you didn’t bring them all.” Lady Grizwolde looked up from the magazines she had been sorting through on the knees of her rust suit. “There was one that I particularly wanted to show Mrs. Haskell—with pictures of a library from a town house in New York. It had some wonderful iron chairs with the seats upholstered in modern tapestry. Are you sure you didn’t drop it?”

  “Those are all the magazines I found, Phyllis.” Miss Finchpeck gathered herself together as if from stray strands of ectoplasm. “I really don’t know why you wish to change the library, or if you must, why you can’t just add a few new books to the shelves. So long as the leather bindings match, the effect wouldn’t be too jarring. Anything else would be unkind to the memory of all the Grizwoldes who came before us and put their hearts and souls into this house.”

  “Exactly.” Her ladyship got to her elegant feet. “They changed things, and so shall I. Never mind. With a little luck the place will be yours one day, and you will get to redo things back to the way you like them.” Giving Daddy and me one of her manicured smiles, she said she would go and have a quick look for the magazine herself. “And while I’m gone, Timmy”—she turned back on reaching the door— “perhaps you would ring for Sarah and have her bring in the quiche Mrs. Johnson made for lunch. Mrs. Haskell and her father are expecting guests at their home this afternoon, so I think it would work best, given the time constraints, if we eat casually in here rather than the dining room.”

  “Ah, most gracious,” Daddy said, raising up in his chair, “but one would not wish to disrupt any arrangements you have made. Giselle’s husband is at home with nothing to occupy him and thus more than eager to be at the disposal of our visitors until our return. Indeed,” he added, exuding magnanimity, “being a chef by profession, Bentwick will no doubt relish the opportunity to twitter about with the cucumber sandwiches and pour cups of Earl Grey into Royal Doulton cups.”

  “Lunch in here will be lovely,” I interrupted firmly.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of moments.” Lady Grizwolde went out the door, closing it behind her. Whereupon Miss Finchpeck gave a little twitch, but whether from relief or irritation wasn�
�t clear. Reaching for a needlepoint bellpull, installed between two landscapes that looked like genuine Constables to me, she gave it a tug. A distant ringing sounded, after which the only sounds to be heard were the crackling of the fire and the lashing of rain against the long, velvet-clad windows. My father overflowed his chair, his feet extending beyond the ottoman. An enormous man flopped out as if waiting to be removed for immediate embalming. A man who, if I were prepared to be truthful, I hardly knew. Even so, I suddenly found him the most comforting thing in this room, which I had found so inviting just a short time before.

  “My mother, who was Sir Casper’s father’s—Sir Walter’s— sister”—Miss Finchpeck raised her voice slightly to be heard above the rain— “instilled in me a sense of duty toward this house. It was her belief that to betray that duty was a sin against God and country.”

  The small, dull eyes found mine, and it was their lack of expression that made me feel it would be warmer outside in the rain. What must life be like for Sir Casper, I wondered, living with a wife who had all the vivacity of a store mannequin and a cousin with fog in her lungs?

  “In saying this, I make no criticism of Lady Grizwolde.” The voice had dropped back to a whisper. “She was not reared on warnings of the dangers in store for those who tamper with what our traditions hold dear. And she has not yet realized the house has no liking for beautiful women.”

  “Oh, dear!” was all I could come up with.

  My father managed an eloquent stare.

  “Sir Casper’s mother was beautiful, and she used the power such looks bestow to persuade poor Uncle Wallie to betray a holy trust.” Miss Finchpeck drifted over to a seat under the windows. “I should not be saying any of this, but I have to appeal to you, Mrs. Haskell. Discourage her ladyship from making changes at the Old Abbey, especially now that Sir Casper has such high hopes for the righting of that old wrong.”

  In the silence that resettled over the room I thought about old Ned and his talk of broken vows. He’d also said he didn’t believe Miss Finchpeck responsible for the middle-of-the-night replacement of furnishings Lady Grizwolde had moved to different locations. But I thought him wrong. I suspected that beneath her timidity Miss Finchpeck had a will of iron. It was tempting, but I knew it would be useless, to ask what Sir Casper’s father had done to break faith or how Sir Casper planned to set matters right. She would recognize my vulgar curiosity for what it was, and she might already regret having spoken at all.

  “It’s not my decorating style to tear down what works just for the sake of change unless that’s what the client wants.” I sounded as if I were reciting lines from a manual, but I did understand this peculiar woman’s thinking. I believed that houses are like people. If you dress them up in clothes that don’t fit properly or are in styles that don’t suit them or colors they hate, they will be very unhappy, and no one could enjoy living in them. But unlike Timmy, where I stopped short was in thinking a structure capable of exacting revenge upon its inhabitants. At least, jumping as thunder shook the room like a bag of bones, I thought I did.

  The door opened, and a curly-haired young woman in a black frock and white apron came with springing steps into the room. Hers was the first merry face I’d seen since leaving home. And that was beginning to seem ages ago.

  “Hallo.” She stood with hands on her hips looking Daddy and me over as if we were contestants on a game show and she had to decide which one was sitting on the chair with “Prize” written on the seat.

  “Hallo,” we said back, and she gave us a cheeky thumbs-up before looking over at Miss Finchpeck, who had picked up some knitting and was silently moving the needles. “You rang, miss? Just passing the time? Or was there something I can do for you?”

  “Lady Grizwolde would like lunch brought in here, Sarah.”

  “What’s that you say?”

  “Lunch in here, Sarah.”

  “Well, you’ve got to learn to speak up the first time, haven’t you, my funny old duck?” The girl bounced forward, picked up the ball of wool that had fallen to the floor, dropped it in Miss Finchpeck’s lap, and actually patted her on the head before skipping out of the room.

  My father and I exchanged wide-eyed stares.

  “She needs training,” the thin voice informed us, “but it’s so difficult to get staff, and she wants to be here because of her grandfather and because she loves this house. Ned practically brought her up. So she was always about the place.”

  “It exhausts me to even think about being young.” Daddy shifted his feet more firmly onto the ottoman as the door again opened and Lady Grizwolde reappeared. Her dark hair had an added shine; her complexion, a more dewy radiance. Or so I thought, but perhaps it was only because her youth and beauty were in such utter contrast to the figure looming over her shoulder.

  I had known that Sir Casper was many years his wife’s senior. But not ever having met him or even seen him in passing, I had pictured him as distinguished, very possibly handsome. There is always something romantic about the wealthy, titled man—a widower no less—marrying a beautiful woman for love. So I had wanted to believe. The reality entering the room was more than disappointing. The old man hobbling my way, leaning heavily on two canes, looked as though he wore an ill-fitting facial mask of yellowish rubber with a few wisps of gray hair sprouting from the wrinkled scalp. His eyes were watery slits; his lips, practically invisible. It was the sort of face that a makeup artist might have produced to scare young children and grown-ups alike into waking nightmares. Standing up to shake the fleshless hand he had laboriously removed from one cane, I pondered the inevitable question. Why had Phyllis Grizwolde—who must have had eligible men falling over each other to marry her—married this one? Was he so incredibly wealthy? Or—I tried to be kind—an incredibly wonderful human being? Loving and sympathetic, a witty conversationalist, a sporting backgammon opponent. The touch of his skin on mine was icy, and his voice was a wheezing rasp that, because of his bent posture, hit me in the chest.

  “I’m pleased to welcome you to the Old Abbey, Mrs. Haskell.” He was now speaking to my shoes and was yet to appear aware of my father’s presence or that of Miss Finchpeck. “My dear wife tells me that you have an excellent reputation as a decorator, or whatever they call you people who help pick out new curtains and other flummeries that women so delight in. I have told her to spare no expense, especially when it comes to the master-bedroom suite. To date”—he lifted his head and wheezed in my face— “her ladyship and I have occupied separate quarters, but that is shortly to be changed!” He uttered a fusty chuckle and kept a clawlike grasp of my hand as I took an automatic step backward. His lipless mouth worked, and his red-rimmed eyes grew more watery.

  “We can talk about this over lunch, Casper.” Her ladyship spoke from behind him.

  “No, no, my dear! I must seize the moment.” He wagged a stick and sent a couple of magazines flying. “I must make it clear to this young woman that I wish her to create a pink-and-white fantasy of a room with fairy lights over the bed and mirrors everywhere. There must be canopies and frills and velvety carpeting.”

  “It is what I would have wished for my honeymoon with Harriet.” My father’s voice flooded the room, but no one paid him any attention.

  “Casper, you must not tire yourself.” Her ladyship moved within five or six feet of her husband and extended a hand without touching him. “Now that you have seen Mrs. Haskell, why don’t you retire for a good long rest?”

  “Rest!” He threw back his rubbery bald head and cackled a laugh. “Rest is something for the old and decrepit, and I feel youth creeping back upon me. Am I not out of my wheelchair for the first time in months? Have I not lost the tremors that have so long afflicted me? Timothia”—he addressed Miss Finchpeck without looking her way— “tell Phyllis that you see in me the vital man I was before the years chewed me up and spat me out.”

  “You look remarkably fit, dear Casper,” responded the voice from the shadows.

  “Aye, a
nd I shall be ready to cast off at least one of these sticks,” he said, tapping it on the floor, “after a hearty luncheon.”

  “But you never eat anything but clear broth midday, and always in your room.” Lady Grizwolde’s voice was so cold, I wished I had a coat to put on. “If you are making this change in your routine because you think Mrs. Haskell is staying for lunch, it is unnecessary.” She turned to me. “I couldn’t find that magazine I wanted you to see, but I will get it to you another day. I do understand that as you and your father are expecting visitors this afternoon, you must get home as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, isn’t it a shame,” I managed to say just as Sarah wheeled in a trolley with a delectable-looking quiche—all golden and puffy, taking pride of place among dishes of fruit and marinated vegetables. I took some comfort in Daddy’s anguished expression. He was thinking about his stomach, not Harriet.

  Chapter 13

  Some things shouldn’t happen to a person on an empty stomach, and discovering that the vicar had driven off in my car was one of them. Daddy, of course, was beside himself that Harriet had gone along for the ride. Being a responsible daughter, I had felt duty bound to suggest that my elderly parent take Mr. Ambleforth’s bicycle while I walked home, and I would have appreciated a little gratitude. Needless to say, none was forthcoming. Poor old Ned stood looking as if he expected to be hauled off and stuck in the stocks. He was now telling me for the third time that he had driven the car into the garage, as he had promised.

  “Right there is where it was.” He pointed a gnarled finger at a sizable space between two cars, an elderly Rolls-Royce and a Honda Prelude. “Drove it in most careful, I did. And then I went and brought in Vicar’s bike and leaned it, just as you sees, up against the wall just inside the door, where he wouldn’t have to fall all over his self looking for it. It don’t take going to Oxford University to tell he’s an absentminded gent. Goes with the job, don’t it? And he’s been around here quite a bit of late, sitting like a nesting bird in them ruins and trying to talk to Sir Casper about Old Worty every blamed chance he gets. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I looks out from the greenhouse not ten minutes ago and sees the blighter—if you’ll pardon my language when talking about a gentleman that hangs over the pulpit of a Sunday—speeding off down the drive as if Lucifer his self was after him.”