Vienna came at me in a rush, rage distorting her face, and as we were about to collide, I dropped down, reached out with both hands, and gave her ankle as hard a tug as I could manage. Then I heard her body slam to the floor as my eyes closed.
Epilogue
Any day now the wallflowers would be out. And for me the appearance of those sweet, simple flowers with their heavenly scent have always proclaimed that summer has arrived. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Ben and I had taken the children into the garden so that Abbey and Tam could romp while Rose basked in the sunshine dappling down through the branches of the old copper beech. I still worried sometimes about loving this baby too much, but more often about not loving all three children enough.
In the end, I learned that it wasn’t Freddy’s fecklessness that kept him from rescuing me on that awful day. While Abbey had been crying because I was gone and Mrs. Malloy was preoccupied looking after Rose, Tam had disappeared. He had been hiding in the herb garden, hoping to give us all a good scare that would make us realize he was every bit as important to us as baby Rose. Perhaps he was remembering how glad I had been to find him safe the day he had disappeared from Clarice Whitcombe’s house. But now he had adjusted to having Rose with us and was my proud helper.
Jonas had joined us for a while, to potter among his beloved flower beds, but when the sun became too strong for his bald head he went inside to fetch his hat, which might be on a hook in the kitchen alcove, but was just as likely to be somewhere in his bedroom.
Mrs. Malloy had returned to her house in Herring Street, after staying at Merlin’s Court for a week to help get Rose settled in. But we didn’t get many opportunities to miss her, because she had decided I needed her at least three mornings a week. On the days when she didn’t come she would telephone at least twice to discuss ideas she had for more of Abigail’s Housecleaning Products.
Tom Tingle came quite often to garden with Jonas and Ben. Clarice Whitcombe and Brigadier Lester-Smith were now pursuing an open courtship. Sir Robert and Maureen Pomeroy had invited us over for tea one afternoon. They appeared to have rekindled their happiness, so I assumed he had forgiven her one lapse of honesty. No one talked much about the upcoming trials of the Miller sisters. But a large number of people in the village—including Clarice and Tom—now owned Norfolk terriers.
“Tam, get out of that tree before you fall,” I shouted up at my son just as Abbey came skipping up to me with a tiny toad cupped in her hands.
“Mummy, can he be my pet?”
“Darling, he wouldn’t like it indoors.” I still had one eye on Tam and another on Rose, who was stretching, stirring as if about to wake up.
“But Daddy said ...”
“That it was up to your mother.” Ben cupped his hand over his eyes to keep the sun out and smiled at me. “Remember, Abbey, I said Mummy would be the one who’d be landed with taking the animal to the vet, buying him a lead, and making sure there was always food in his bowl.”
“And I expect you also told her that if she kissed that toad it would turn into a prince.”
“Of course he didn’t.” Freddy came ambling across the grass to add his sixpenny-worth. “My friend here”— draping an arm around Ben’s shoulders—”wouldn’t want his pretty little daughter getting warts on her lips as well as her hands.”
“Yuck!” Abbey dropped the toad without a downward glance, and it had the sense to hop away when Tam jumped out of the tree without regard for the lives or limbs of anyone in his path.
“Tell them.” My son gave his sister a poke. “Tell Mummy and Daddy that you want a dog named Prince, not the stupid kind in fairy stories.”
“Oh, please! Please!” Abbey clasped her hands and lifted beseeching eyes heavenward, like a holy child experiencing a vision.
“We are not getting a dog.” Ben went on to ruin this authoritative statement by adding, “At least not today. I’ve got something even more fun in mind. Why don’t we get the kite off the shelf in the old stables and see how high we can fly it?”
This suggestion was enthusiastically received, as much by Freddy as by the children, and soon they were all industriously trying to unravel the string of the kite and entreating Daddy to please not take all day. Not wanting Jonas to miss the festivities, I checked on Rose, who was again sleeping comfortably, and smoothed a hand over her downy head before going back inside. I had picked up the repaired mirror the previous afternoon and had been hoping for the opportunity to slip into Jonas’s bedroom and hang it up. When I didn’t find him in the kitchen I knew that he must be upstairs, and I decided to take it up to him now. This way I would get to see his immediate reaction on having his mother’s long-ago present restored to him, I decided as I tucked it under my arm and tapped on his door. He didn’t answer my knock. I softly called his name.
“Jonas?”
No answer. Should I take the mirror back to the study? Or hang it, as originally planned? I hadn’t made up my mind when I went into the room. But the faded rectangle of rose-patterned wallpaper where the mirror previously hung had a particularly forlorn look today. So I crossed the floor, feeling as I always did that I was embarking on an obstacle course.
The mirror looked happy to be back where it belonged. Could it be that there was something magical about it, as Jonas had believed when he was a young boy? Certainly, I thought stepping back from it, the glass did seem to reflect sunlight in a special way. When I stood a little to the side with my eyes half closed, it showed the room bathed in a golden glow, and I could imagine that I was looking at a painting by one of the Dutch masters gifted in depicting homely scenes in such a way that an old man sleeping in a chair by the window acquired a dignity often denied lords and ladies.
“Jonas?” I didn’t want to startle him; he looked so peaceful with his battered old hat and Abigail’s book lying open in his lap. He must have dozed off while leafing through it as he often did, when he wasn’t busy mixing up a batch of her furniture polish. “I didn’t see you at first”—still keeping my voice low—”this chair has a high back and with it being turned to face the window…”
He did not hear me. I knew before I touched his hand that Jonas would never hear me again. He had slipped away without saying good-bye. A wave of desolation swept over me as I knelt beside his chair and rested my face against his knee. Life would never be the same without him. I wanted to shake him, ask him if he had forgotten that he was needed here. Wanted to tell him that little Rose was entitled to more time with him. And then something strange happened. The emptiness inside me filled with the golden glow cast by that narrow rectangle of mirror.
Getting up, I opened the window and leaned out into a breeze that smelled of wallflowers. I could see my family down below in the garden. Ben stood under the copper beech with Rose in his arms. He was smiling at Tam and Abbey, who capered in circles while watching Freddy unleash the faded kite into the clear blue sky. For a moment it seemed doubtful, almost fearful of taking flight. But then that old kite soared eagerly, joyously towards the sky, straining to touch the sun until its string broke free, and I smiled through my tears as I watched it vanish into the heavens.
To my son Jason, who by always asking for his own, personal bedtime story, kept the hope alive that I would one day be a writer
With loving appreciation to Chad Michael Brewer, who once gave me a gift, that gave me the idea
Copyright © 1998 by Dorothy Cannell
Originally published by Viking/Penguin (ISBN 978-0140276152)
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.BelgraveHouse.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
The Spring Cleaning Murders Page 26
