by Joan Smith
We finished our walk just as Everett’s carriage brought the others back. Gwendolyn was the first out. She ran to me, her eyes shining with pleasure. “Look what Mr. Everett gave me, Auntie,” she said, holding for my inspection a pretty statue of a dog, not valuable at all—it was only plaster—but attractive to a child.
“How nice. Did you say thank you, dear?”
“Of course! I'm not a child,” she answered, offended.
Lady Althea and Everett remained on excellent terms; she flirting her head off, and he his usual pleasant self. No child, she expressed her thanks very civilly.
“You haven’t seen the half of it,” he told her. “There is twice as much stuff abovestairs. You’ll have to come back.”
“Was the portrait one of your ancestors?” I asked, as that had been the point of the trip, to discover the fact.
“No, and not very like me either,” she answered, with a laughing glance to her host. “I am very angry with Mr. Everett. It was a woman with gray hair.”
“It looked red to me, the way he had the sun shining behind her. Dashed pretty anyhow, for an older malkin. As you are yourself, ma’am, if I may make so bold as to say so,” he added, with a gallant bow.
“He is incorrigible. I don’t know how you put up with him.” Lady Althea laughed gaily. I would have been tempted to strike him, had he said such a thing to me, but she was more forgiving. They parted still friends. Everyone left in the greatest good mood, all promising one another we would meet again soon.
“Don’t forget you are coming to see me ride tomorrow,” Ralph called as he left.
“I’ll be there,” I promised. Lady Althea cast a sly glance at me, suspecting my motives in going up to the Manor, I believe, as certain amongst us suspected her reason for coming to our cottage.
Mrs. Pudge, still irate over her cat, said frankly, “The woman is casting out her snares to Mr. Everett. You’d better look sharp, miss, or she’ll pull him out from under your feet.”
“Feet? Surely you mean nose, Mrs. Pudge.”
“You use him for a doormat. Feet is what I said, and what I meant. The only cure for it is for you to have him, marry him.”
“The cure promises to be worse than the disease.”
“Aye, the cure makes the disease look sick. As for me and Pudge, we’d rather be doorkeeper at an alms-house than to dwell at Oakdene, and so I tell you.”
“He sets a lovely table,” Mama pointed out. The Pudges eat largely and well.
“We’ll not partake of his dainties, thank you very much. Wouldn’t we look fine as state monkeys rigged out in a red suit sprinkled with brass buttons and gold braid?”
“He would not expect you to wear a red suit,” I pointed out, to tease her.
“Don’t lead him to believe Pudge would make such a gudgeon of himself either. What does he pay, do you know?” she asked, as an afterthought.
“Plenty.”
“I don’t doubt it. Money covers him like a garment. You’d have more than heart could wish if you took him. Some sly girl will snap him up fast enough. A word to the wise.”
Mama looked hopefully to see how I reacted to these varied bits of advice. “I was never sly,” I said.
“No, nor wise either, like your sister was,” Mrs. Pudge retorted, then swaggered off, her topknot sinking to the side of her head.
It is impossible not to envision how your life could be changed, when you have had an offer. Even though I had declined, and meant it, I found myself conjuring with what life would be like at Oakdene, with myself in the mistress’s seat. I would indeed have more money than my simple heart could wish. Everyone thought I should accept. Menrod, Mama, even Mrs. Pudge and Mr. Doyle.
One thing was clear after the visit; whatever my own personal advantages, it would be unconscionable to toss Ralph into that household, where he was considered a moonling. I felt a burning resentment at Everett’s treatment of him, though Gwen had managed to bring him around her thumb in a hurry. Of course Everett was out of reason fond of me, and I was quite as good a manager as Gwen, in the matter of Mr. Everett.
What did he see in me? I wondered. It was Menrod who put the idea into my head. I am vainly human enough to have found it natural, but as I considered our relationship, and more particularly his taste, it did strike me as odd, this unrelenting passion he had for me. I had never encouraged him, not one bit. His passion was not physical, either; there were no dying glances lingering on my face or form, no extraordinary efforts to get me alone for a spot of lovemaking.
It was very strange. I would have thought he would favor a grander lady than myself, someone more like Lady Althea, but his attitude to her was not lover-like. He treated her as he treated Menrod, or myself—like an equal. He never groveled or flattered, and never tried to lord it over anyone either. Really he was complicated, for a simple-seeming man.
* * *
Chapter 13
The next morning, we awoke to see dull gray skies looming overhead. It was poor weather for Ralph to be riding, which made me wonder whether I ought to go up to the Manor or not. I didn’t want to disappoint him. By ten, it was pouring torrents, but by noon the clouds had emptied, and the sun was struggling to penetrate through the remaining wisps. Though the ground was soaked, Mama and I decided to take the short trip anyway. Menrod had used his influence to get himself an excellent metaled road to Reading, the same one we took to his place.
The butler insisted on calling Menrod to greet us. “Don’t bother to disturb him,” I said. “It is the children we have come to see.”
“His lordship is expecting you,” he answered, and went to fetch him.
“Ralph must have told him we were coming, I did not want any to-do over the visit.”
“You told me he would not be here, Wendy,” Mama complained. His few visits to our cottage had not lessened her aversion to him.
When he entered smiling a moment later, it was hard to see what she feared. He was becoming more sociable, more friendly, noticeably so.
“Good day, Menrod. I told your butler not to disturb you, but he insisted,” I said. Mama nodded.
“The occasions when I am allowed to welcome Peter’s family to the Manor are too rare. I asked to be notified when you arrived. Ralph assured me you were to come, to see him perform. I feared the rain might detain you.”
“Oh, no, we are not likely to shrink up like a woolen if we get wet, but I doubt Ralph will ride today. The ground is slippery. I did not want to disappoint him, so we came anyway. We’ll see him ride another time.”
“We’ll give the ground half an hour to dry, then call him down.”
I could see Mama did not relish the half hour of his sole company, but I admit I was flattered at the attention. “Any news from Culligan?” he asked.
“No, I have hired Mr. Doyle in his stead.”
“From the ridiculous to the sublime, I see. Culligan is too shifty for his own good. Your taking on Doyle makes me wonder whether you are serious in your quest for the children. He is not known for his ingenuity.”
It confirmed my own opinion of the man, but I refused to change again. “He is honest, upright. The very fact of having such a representative will do us some good.”
“His good character has not made him famous, or even known in London,” he disillusioned us. “He deals in very small fish; one might almost say minnows. Local wills, real estate, partnerships—that sort of thing. I hobble my own chances, to tell you so. He is an excellent fellow,” he finished, brandishing his crossed fingers to show he fibbed.
Mama frowned in perplexity. I smiled, but was equally perplexed.
“I cannot offer you the variety your better friend can, but may I offer you some wine, or tea?” he asked.
“A cup of tea would be nice,” Mama answered.
“Gwen tells me she was at Oakdene yesterday,” he went on. I was surprised Gwen should be his informant, and not Lady Althea.
“Yes, she came away with a piece of plunder. Have you seen it?�
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“More times than I care to. She’s part horse-dealer, that one. I might as well warn you, so that you may alert Mrs. Pudge, she had her eye on that pretty white kitten your housekeeper keeps at the cottage."
“I wish her luck of getting that! Mrs. Pudge would as lief part with the last good tooth in her head,” Mama told him.
A silence descended, which I brought to an end by relating the saga of the devil cat and Lady.
“If she’s already got a litter in her, you may keep her. We have a dozen cats cluttering up the stables,” he said, with feeling.
Mama was shocked speechless at such broad talk. I said, “If she has, it is your bounden duty to take charge of half the litter, sir. We know who is to blame if Lady is in trouble.”
“I hold the theory that ladies who get into trouble must take the blame, and the consequences, to themselves. If she behaved as she ought, she would not be in trouble.”
“You have a theory to fit every occasion. When do you find time to form them all?”
“They spring into my mind. Folks say, you know, that small minds are interested in people, medium ones in things, and great ones in theories. I seldom think of anything but theories,” he said soberly.
My mother was fairly fuming with his conceit, though if she had deigned to glance at him, she would have seen he was biting back a smile. She said scarcely a word throughout the entire half hour, which made it incumbent on me to chatter endlessly, on the most mundane of topics. After uttering every banality I could lay tongue to, I suggested the children be sent for.
“Is half an hour up so soon?” he asked, drawing out his watch. “It seems we just sat down.”
They came pelting noisily down the stairs, Gwen in the lead. I was touched to see she carried Goldie, her mother’s old rag doll. I mentioned it to her.
“I don’t want to get my good one dirty,” she answered, diminishing my first rush of affection.
“Just like Hettie!” my mother exclaimed. “She too was very careful of all her things. Unlike you, Wendy, who never cared what damage you did to your gowns.”
“And still don’t,” Menrod mentioned in a soft voice, his eyes examining the hem of my skirt, which had got splattered by the short walk to and from the carriage. “It is a very pretty gown you have destroyed, too,” he added.
Ralph was smiling shyly in the background, waiting his turn for attention. I ignored Menrod’s ill manners and had a few words with my nephew. “Are you going to tackle a ride today, Ralph, or do you think it too wet outside?” I asked.
“Wet? Rubbish, the ground was dry hours ago,” Menrod said airily. “Come and show your skills off to the ladies, Ralph.”
We all went out to an enclosed field, where the Menrod children have learned to ride for generations. It was grass, for easy falling, and fenced high enough that a pony could not bolt beyond the training area. A Welsh pony was brought from the stable. I expected someone would lift Ralph into the saddle, but he led Rufus to the fence, and used the lower railing for a mounting block.
“Why don’t you give him a hand?” I asked Menrod when two efforts were unsuccessful.
“He’s got to learn to do it for himself. He’s not a lady.”
“I could do it,” Gwen said. “When are you going to get me a pony, Uncle? I am older than Ralph. I should have got one first.”
For once, I agreed with her. She was eager to ride; Ralph was not enjoying it at all, to judge by the grim set of his jaws and the clenching of his fingers on the reins. He walked the pony around the ring twice, relaxing a little on the second trip. He was daring enough to glance at me, with a proud smile.
“Now trot him, Ralph,” Menrod called.
Ralph obediently gave his pony the signal that set him trotting. The boy’s relaxation was over; he sat as stiff as a tin soldier in the saddle, while Menrod called assorted commands to him. The pony was turned to the right and left, and around in large circles.
“I could do it better, I’m not afraid,” Gwen boasted.
“Shoulders back. You’re not a straw man, Ralph,” Menrod called. When Ralph remained hunched in fright, his uncle took a few steps toward him. The animal took fright, speeded up to a canter, which undid Ralph’s shaky confidence entirely. He became so flustered he fell from the saddle onto the ground, scarcely missing the pony’s rear hooves.
I ran forward to help him, fearful that he had broken something in the tumble. Menrod held me back. “Leave him. He’s all right.” He called to the boy, “On your feet, Ralph. Back in the saddle.”
Ralph began to arise, slowly, unwillingly, with an appealing eye to me to rescue him.
“That’s enough for today,” I said firmly. “The ground is damp; I think the pony slipped on the wet grass.”
“The pony did not slip; Ralph did,” Menrod contradicted. “No harm done. He’ll have plenty of spills before he’s through. Up you go, Ralph.”
Ralph, with his head down, took the reins and led the pony back to the fence, to mount once more, awkwardly, his little feet slipping and sliding on the fence rail. “Menrod, this is cruel. Let him come in. Can’t you see he’s frightened half to death? He’s too young to be riding. He’s only four years old.”
“Closer to five. He’s two years behind schedule. His father was jumping ponies at five.”
Ralph, with his ears perked to hear the decision, stood with his foot on the fence railing, looking at us. I read an appeal in his big dark eyes, the hope that I would save him.
“I could do it. Let me try, Uncle,” Gwen begged.
“Let Gwen have a turn,” I suggested.
“Gwen is not dressed for it. Come on, Ralph. What are you waiting for?” he asked impatiently.
My heart ached to see poor little Ralph crawl back into the saddle, stiffer than before, more hesitant, while Menrod stood, implacable. There was not an ounce of mercy, of yielding, in him. Ralph was his nephew, and he must perform to the Menrod standard, if it killed him.
Mama too made soft sounds of disapproval at the performance going forth.
“If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible,” I said, my voice shrill, riding on the air.
“I wish you will stop making a mountain of a molehill. If you only came here to discourage Ralph, it would be better if you had not come at all,” he answered angrily.
“We are not leaving till you let him down from that brute’s back!”
Ralph kept looking and listening, to learn his fate. “Will you get on with it!” Menrod shouted.
My nephew had no choice but to continue the lesson, which had become a lesson in inhumanity. The child was trembling with fright. I waited with Mama just outside the training ring till it was over. It went on for half an hour longer. At the end of that time, I congratulated Ralph, then told Menrod we must leave immediately for home.
“You see I was right,” he boasted. “Ralph can do it. He does not want too much mothering, or he’ll turn into a full-fledged sissy. He needs a firm hand.”
Ralph was beyond hearing, leading his pony back to the stable. He looked so small, so vulnerable, I wanted to run after him and kidnap him away to the cottage. My control broke. I turned on Menrod in a frenzy.
“He is not the only one here who wants a firm hand. It is unconscionable of you to force him to ride at his age, and in this weather. It is a lucky thing for you he was not maimed, or killed. I shall speak to Mr. Doyle about this, and see if he can’t get an injunction to stop you.”
“Miss Harris, don’t make a flaming jackass of yourself,” was his answer.
“Come, Mama. We are leaving now. Good day to you. Goodbye, Gwen.”
We strode off to the front of the house, then had to stand five minutes, waiting till our carriage was sent around. Menrod did not have the common courtesy to accompany us, but went to the stable to bully Ralph some more.
As a consequence of the visit, our ameliorating relationship with Menrod took a turn for the worse. Doyle was perfectly useless to us. He rambled on
about motives and so on, in the affair of the riding lesson. Naturally I could not accuse Menrod outright of trying to kill the boy. It was his insensitivity that was in question, his harshness to a minor in his keeping.
Was the animal vicious? Doyle asked, and such stupid questions as that. Finally he decreed that learning to ride was a fit pastime for a child of four, providing that due precautions were taken for his safety. Forcing him to remount an animal who had just thrown him, when he was trembling with fright, was no dereliction of duty, it seemed, providing it was done by Lord Menrod.
Mrs. Pudge, always ready to incline her ear to the wrongdoings of old devil’s owner, declared that a brutish man knoweth not, and if the Lord in His heaven had His wits about Him, the heathen would perish like the beasts.
“Just when I was beginning to think he was reasonable, too,” I fretted.
“Reasonable?” Mama asked, gazing at the enclosed staircase. “No, he was never reasonable, Wendy, but only conning us, to make us give up on the children.”
“Aye, using words smoother than butter and softer than oil, to con you along,” Mrs. Pudge said knowingly, “as that black cat did to my Lady. I don’t like the size of her. She’s walking at an odd gait lately. I do believe she’s increasing. If she is, I’ll disown her, put the daughter of wickedness out from my roof.”
We suffered a spell of bad weather, drizzle that continued for two days instead of working itself into a good downpour to clear the air. It kept callers away, but at least it would keep Ralph from being forced into more lessons, so my mind was easy on that score.
During a respite of the drizzle on the second evening, Mr. Everett came to call, and was told the story of the riding lesson by Mama.
“I have to agree with Menrod,” he said when it was done.
“If you had been there to see him, you would not agree,” Mama said sadly. “The poor wee tyke, shaking in his boots. 'Twas enough to break your heart.”
“It’s common knowledge that the only thing to do after a tumble is to remount at once, or you’ll never do it. The fear goes on growing, the longer you put it off, till in the end it is too big to get over.”
