Corner Of The Housetop: Buried Secrets

by Leen Elle

She nodded.

  "Did he ask you to?"

  "No, Daddy." She looked at Derek. "I think you're in trouble."

  "You think?" he snapped, glaring at her.

  With a huff and a snort like Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth's, Mrs. Worthington shifted in her seat so she was facing them. "Hold your temper, boy. It's not her fault. Don't blame others for your ignorance and carelessness."

  "I'm sure Derek didn't "

  Jonathan locked eyes with Mr. Smithfield over Mrs. Worthington's head. He shook his head slightly, silencing the man. "Why don't you take Abigail down to Beth? I'm sure she could do with a bath and a change of clothes."

  Derek watched the different shades of thought pass over Mr. Smithfield's features before he nodded slightly. With a nod to Mrs. Worthington, he turned from the room.

  Without Mr. Smithfield to act the angel for, Mrs. Worthington's demeanor transformed, her eyes narrowing into deadly slits. "Come in here, boy," she hissed.

  Figuring it wouldn't do any good to try and tell her it wasn't his fault, Derek walked into the room silently, stopping in front of Mrs. Worthington's chair.

  She glared up at him like a coiled viper waiting for just the right moment to strike. There was a furious tick in her right cheek that made Derek wish he was on the other side of the room. Mrs. Worthington leaned forward, her thin lips pressed tightly together, her bony fingers gripping the arms of the chair viciously. "What were you thinking, boy?" Far from the screeching madness she usually displayed, Mrs. Worthington was calm, her voice measured.

  "I had to get something for Gabriel."

  Thin lips puckered together.

  "Mrs. Smithfield wanted to go riding and he couldn't find the bridle."

  White fingers forcibly released the chair arms, tapping soundlessly on the fabric.

  "When I got back to the fence, where I left the bucket, it was gone."

  After a moment of silent, Mrs. Worthington's cracked, old lips formed into a kind smile. "So let me understand you," she began sweetly. "Gabriel needed you to get something for Mrs. Smithfield?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Her smile faded and the usual dark scowl returned, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You lazy, foolish, evil little ingrate!" she snapped. "Blaming everyone but yourself who just happens to be the only person at fault!"

  A little more comfortable with Mrs. Worthington back to normal, Derek looked dutifully at the floor with as much of a shamed expression as he could muster. There was no use debating the matter of blame, and he supposed he probably should have known better than to leave the little demon alone with the paint.

  "Stupidity! It's pure stupidity!"

  "As good a lecture as I'm sure you've prepared," Jonathan cut in with a cool voice, "I think what he needs to do is get on to cleaning up. We only have a couple days to rectify the damage. The sooner he gets to it, the more likely he'll finish in time."

  "What he needs is another good whipping," Mrs. Worthington snarled nastily.

  "I won't disagree with you, but at the moment that wouldn't be very productive." Stepping up beside his mother, his clean, pale hand resting on the back of her chair, Jonathan fixed Derek with a pointed look. Staring down his nose, and said, "I suggest you get started. You'll be at it a while and you're already behind on your chores as it is."

  There was a cold assurance and commanding certainty in Jonathan's voice. His actions and his words clearly showed some new dominance in the odd relationship he had with his mother. If the man's demeanor surprised Derek, the fact that Mrs. Worthington didn't argue her point and try to continue her lecture nearly made his jaw fall to the floor.

  With another meaningful look in Derek's direction, Jonathan raised his eyebrows, the most expressive sign of impatience that was likely to come from him, and said, "The sooner you get started, the better."

  "There'll be no supper for you tonight. Nor breakfast, either, if you haven't finished the hall by morning." Mrs. Worthington seemed to be grasping at her authority in the situation, her voice sharp as her eyes narrowed. Whatever power exchange had taken place when Jonathan had stepped forward and over-ridden her command now shifted back to normal order, placing Mrs. Worthington comfortably in control once again.

  By the smirk that formed on her face as Jonathan walked out of the room without further comment, Derek guessed that she very much preferred it that way.

  "Yes, ma'am," Derek said quietly, turning to leave.

  "And you'd better do a neat job of it, boy. And stay out of the way."

  "Yes, ma'am," he repeated, suppressing a groan of annoyance.

  Two hours later, Derek was still on his hands and knees, trying his best to get the white paint off the floor. Fortunately, it hadn't had much time to sit and dry, so it was coming up fairly easily.

  Unfortunately, he'd already been kicked twice. Once by Mrs. Smithfield, who hadn't noticed him when she walked in, and once by Beth, who was carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs, around which she couldn't see him. His muscles were getting sore from the work and, he couldn't help but point out to himself, he was getting hungrier and hungrier as the smells from dinner wafted up the kitchen stairs. There was no way he'd finish in time to eat.

  Scowling, Derek continued scrubbing the white shoe print. It was the last one in the hall and then he'd be on his way outside to pull up the paint-covered stones that lined the sides of the walk and replace them with brick from the pile in the shed. After that was done, he had to start painting the carriage house. And then there was the side of the house…

  As he continued to clean, the voices from the parlor floated out into the hall. "I can't tell you how sorry I am." Mrs. Smithfield was sitting with Mrs. Worthington and her children, apologizing yet again for Abigail.

  "Not at all, my dear. I'm sure little Abigail didn't mean to do anything wrong. Derek should have been paying more attention. It's quite not your fault. He's always been fairly careless when it came to his responsibilities." Mrs. Worthington's sugary laughter tinkled through the thick air as if humidity didn't exist in her private world of perfection. "Frankly, I'm surprised something worse than this hasn't happened sooner."

  "That's no excuse "

  "Dear, please, don't even give it another thought."

  Oh no, Derek thought, scrubbing harder. Don't even give it another thought. It's really no problem at all. I hate her, he thought viciously, sloshing milky water on the floor as he threw his rag in the bucket. I hate her so much.

  Standing, up, his shirt dripping with sweat and dirty water, Derek took the bucket and went out to the walkway. There was still enough light for him to pick out the bricks he needed to replace. Kneeling to examine the main stepping stones that led from the carriage house to the side door, Derek found that the heat of the day had already baked the white paint onto the path, rendering it impossible to clean. Wondering if Mrs. Worthington would rather hear this news before or after dinner, he hauled the bucket up once more.

  Walking around the side of the carriage house, he dumped out the dirty water and started towards the well to refill the bucket. Fresh water, a stiff scrub brush, and a new rag from the shed in hand, Derek returned to the path. Getting even a little of the paint off would be a help. At least, it would look better when Mrs. Worthington came out to make sure he wasn't just being lazy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By Friday evening, Derek felt just about as bad as he thought he possibly could. His every muscle ached, he had a constant headache, and he didn't think he would ever be able to catch up on all the sleep he'd missed. However, all his chores were finished. All he had to do was serve one more dinner that evening, then he would be free to return to the stables, never to step foot in that terrible house ever again: or so he told himself to help him get through his final chores of the week.

  As Derek set out the dishes, he was pleased to find himself Abigail-free. One good thing to come of his severe lecture and extra chores was that the girl seemed to finally understand exactly how much trouble she'd gotten him in. S
he was staying very far away from him, either out of guilt or on order from her father. Even when he set her dish in front of her at mealtimes, all she did was stare at her lap and say, "Thank you," in a voice so quiet Derek almost could not believe it came from her.

  After the family filed in, Derek set out the platters and bowls. Abigail stared at her plate and no one else said anything to Derek. Mrs. Smithfield gave him a slight smile, but that was the only sign that anyone even knew he was there.

  Returning to the kitchen where Beth and Atty were busily pouring clotted cream over sugared buns so they'd be ready to send up for dessert, Derek set his tray on the counter and slumped into the chair by the hearth. "Exactly how long are the Smithfields supposed to be here, anyway?"

  "They're leaving in another week, I think," Atty answered. She had finally stopped calling him "sir."

  "That's not too bad, then."

  "If you aren't doing anything right now, could you slice some bread?"

  "I brought the bread up."

  "For tomorrow," Beth clarified. "Missus Worthington wants four trays of sandwiches and two of toast and jam."

  Derek whistled. "How many people does she think are going to come to this party of hers?"

  "Apparently, she invited the whole town at church last Sunday."

  Atty shook her head.

  Derek took several fresh loaves from the basket on the mantle and set out the bread board by the sink. "She's only doing this to impress the Smithfield's, you know." He fished in the cutlery drawer for the bread knife. "She's ridiculous."

  Beth didn't reply. She had left the rest of the buns to Atty and was flouring a baking sheet to put her rolls on. When she started twisting the dough, she seemed to do so with a little more force than was necessary.

  The little bell on the wall tinkled.

  Wiping his hand on his pants, Derek took the tray of sugared buns and strawberries up the stairs.

  "I hope you aren't doing this on our account," Mrs. Smithfield was saying kindly.

  "Oh, dear, of course not." Mrs. Worthington's voice was sweet and girlish. "I always put on some little get-together in the summer."

  "Pardon me," Derek muttered to Jonathan, pushing aside the man's empty plate with the edge of the tray so he could rest it on the table while he took the serving dishes off.

  "Derek, of course you'll be there, won't you?"

  Startled at being spoken to, Derek looked at Mrs. Smithfield with surprise. "Where?"

  "The party. You'll get to spend the day outside with all of us, won't you."

  "Oh, um, I " At a loss, Derek looked at Mrs. Worthington.

  Her crystal eyes seemed to do some quick calculating before she said, "Of course he will. I'm sure Beth and Atty will be able to manage the refreshments."

  Mrs. Smithfield was smiling at Mrs. Worthington, but Mr. Smithfield, who seemed to have understood the old woman's hesitation to mean exactly what it did mean that she'd been trying to think of a reason out of letting Derek off working only looked unamused and like he wanted to say something he knew he shouldn't.

  Feeling like he should say something more since most of the family were still looking at him, Derek muttered, "Thank you, ma'am," before he began piling the tray with the used salad bowls.

  When he'd stomped down the stairs, Derek shoved the tray onto the counter carelessly. Several bowls and glasses toppled over, clinking loudly.

  "Derek, be careful!"

  "She's making me go to her stupid party," he snapped, ignoring Beth's warning.

  "Why would she do that? I'm sure she doesn't want you there."

  "No, she doesn't. But Mrs. Smithfield seems to think I should want to go, so Mrs. Worthington said I could meaning I have to so she wouldn't look like such a bullying, old hag!"

  "Derek!"

  Crossing his arms and glowering at a spot on the stone floor, Derek leaned against the wall, momentarily forgetting his bread-cutting responsibilities.

  "She could leave you in the stables all day and not let you out at all."

  "All the better for me." Marching back to the bread board, Derek picked the knife up and started sawing the loaves viciously. It wasn't that he didn't want to go to the party, really. He just knew Anthony would be there. With Anthony, Jonathan, and Mr. Millstone, he was sure it would make for a very long day.

  Saturday morning dawned bright and heavy. The sunlight that leaked into the loft brought with it a sense of impending torment that kept Derek in bed more than coaxed him out. As he peered out the open hay door, he fought the urge to pull his sheet over his head and pretend the day would pass without him. It became obvious very quickly that he would have so such ability.

  "Boy!"

  "Coming!" he called thickly, pushing himself up with more effort than it rightly should have taken.

  "Yer wanted up at the house to set up tables!" Devon called in reply.

  Derek combed his fingers through his hair as he looked around for where he'd tossed his clothes. Once he was dressed, he descended the ladder with heavy, automatic steps. He looked at Devon, who was feeding Blueberry.

  "You don't think I could pretend to be missing, do you?"

  "Not if you know what's good fer ya," Devon growled indifferently, not looking at him.

  "Thought not." With that, Derek strolled out into the yard where he met the sound of Mrs. Worthington's voice, quivering closely towards impatience.

  "Right over there, Gabriel!"

  Oh, she's already started, he thought dejectedly, trudging towards the knoll.

  As he reached the top and looked down at the main lawn, he was surprised to see how much it had transformed already. The big table from the kitchen was in front of the porch to the right of the driveway, and two smaller tables were near the honeysuckle bushes on the other side of the carriage house. What appeared to be the dining room table was floating back and forth between the well and some place closer to the tables by the honeysuckles as Jonathan and Gabriel, who were supporting it, stepped back and forth at Mrs. Worthington's indecisive directions.

  "It is very heavy, Mother," Gabriel said between gritted teeth.

  "Oh, just leave it there," she conceded with a note that suggested she'd have them try moving it later.

  Derek made his way over to Beth, who was spreading a table cloth over the kitchen table. "Where do you need help?"

  "I think the refreshments can start coming up from the kitchen, to start," Beth said. "That's it for the moment, unless you want to see if you can find more chairs. Missus Worthington doesn't want the good ones brought out." She sounded distinctly ruffled.

  "Derek! There you are, you lazy boy!"

  Derek stopped climbing the steps to the side door and his shoulders slumped. He'd been spotted. Turning slowly, he faced Mrs. Worthington, who was striding towards him in a very disturbing manner. Old ladies just shouldn't be able to walk that fast...

  "Yes, 'am?" he asked wearily.

  "Where have you been? Sleeping in, I suppose, while the rest of us are hard at getting ready. Well, don't just stand there. Go and find some of the old chairs to bring out. I believe there are some in the attic or the carriage house. And don't you smirk at me!" she snapped.

  Derek, who'd been trying to smile complacently in an attempt to appease the woman, scowled as she turned her back. Mrs. Smithfield was a very nice lady, but Derek hoped she never tried to intercede on his behalf again.

  Several hours later, most of the working party were still laboring under Mrs. Worthington's fevered direction.

  "No, no, no! That one goes by the water! And I want a row of chairs back against the porch. And move that plant by the house. Yes, just there...cover that paint spot."

  Derek grunted under the weight of the potted bush he was working down the porch steps. Since the side of the house hadn't come clean, Mrs. Worthington had insisted on disguising the white patch.

  Taking a short break to wipe his forehead, Derek looked at the plantation grounds. Gabriel, Jonathan, and Beth were moving the c
hairs and tables that had been placed earlier in the day.

  Mrs. Worthington, who couldn't seem to make up her mind about anything, was standing on the porch like the conductor of a great orchestra, pointing to people, furniture, and places with her pink, tasseled fan. Every few minutes, she would stop and fan herself, then start giving orders again.

  Giving the bush a final heave into place or rather, out of place: it looked ridiculous, being the only shrubbery so close to that side of the house Derek wondered, not for the first time, why they hadn't done at least a little of the set up the day before. He sighed as he examined the bush for a moment. He shook his head, then went to help Beth set chairs near the refreshment tables.

  Setting the last chair in place, Derek stretched his arms. "I'm going to start bringing up the food."

  "I'll be down to help you in a minute," Beth said, taking a blue table cloth from the pile in the grass near the refreshment tables.

  After several trips up and down the kitchen stairs with wide, heavy trays, Derek dropped onto one of the chairs by the dirt drive. Slumping forward, he wiped his face again. The air was so thick with humidity, breathing was like taking gulps of hot water right into his lungs. He suppressed a groan as he noticed Mrs. Worthington and her pink fan marching towards him.

  "If you're finished, go get cleaned up. You look a mess and the guests will start arriving any time now."

  "Yes, 'am."

  "And do something with your hair!"

  Derek trudged across the lawn. He would have given anything to be able to skip the party and go for a swim. Climbing the knoll took much more effort than it should have, and the sound of the river rushing just minutes away through the trees did nothing to inspire him to climb faster. Maybe he could just show up at the party and say a quick hello, then leave...

  When he reached the stables, a wave of heat billowed out over Derek as he pulled the door open as wide as it would go. Stepping inside was nearly unbearable. The heavy rank of old hay and horse manure choked him. Luckily for the horses, they were out of the heat and odor all morning: Mr. And Mrs. Smithfield had taken Abigail and Bartholomew on one of the riding trails through the back meadows.