by Leslie Meier
“I think we can all agree that wealth and status do not guarantee happiness,” said Robert. “In fact, sometimes I think it’s quite the opposite. Some of the happiest people I know are quite content with very little. They trust in the Lord.”
“Ah, Robert,” sighed Sarah. “He loves the parables—the widow’s mite, the loaves and fishes, the lilies of the field.”
“And that we should not judge lest we be judged,” said Robert.
“That’s all very well and good, Robert,” said Sarah, “but don’t we have a responsibility to stand up against injustice and demand what’s right? If Poppy and Gerald and their sort had their way, there would still be fox hunting. And children like ours wouldn’t stand a chance of getting into a good grammar school, much less university.”
“I have to admit I was a bit shocked today,” said Lucy, “when the dogs brought Perry a baby rabbit and he just snapped its neck and tossed it aside. And then there was the poor young fellow who overdosed in the maze. . . .”
“We heard about that,” said Robert. “Any idea who he was?”
“Poppy said the police told her his name but she forgot it,” said Lucy, a note of outrage in her voice. “She thought it might have been Eric something.”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” said Sarah, giving her husband a look. “It’s typical, cold-blooded country squire behavior. They simply turn a blind eye to anything disagreeable.”
“I will be sure to pray for the poor young man’s soul on Sunday,” promised Robert.
“I think you should pray for the dogs to behave themselves,” said Sarah with a smile. “They are awful and nobody even tries to control them. Perry and Poppy wouldn’t think of leashing them. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to shoo them out of my garden.” Sarah paused. “They dug up my hollyhocks, you know.”
“It’s worth your life to move one off a sofa,” said Sue.
“Now, now,” said Robert. “I think you’re forgetting all the good that they do. The manor employs hundreds of people. It’s the biggest employer in the county.”
“Robert can always find something good to say about everyone,” said Sarah. “Even when we lived in Hoxton, not the fashionable south side but the north where there were some pretty desperate characters, he would insist that we should love our neighbors. That’s a tall order when the neighbors are drug dealers and pimps, mind you.”
“I’ll say,” said Lucy. “I found it impossible to love my neighbor when he ran a leaf blower for three hours on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Well, some things are inexcusable,” said Robert with a smile. “I firmly believe that God considers leaf blowers to be instruments of the devil.”
Believing it was always preferable to leave on a light note, and not wishing to walk home in the dark, Sue and Lucy thanked their hosts for a lovely evening and headed back to the manor. Dusk was falling but it was still light enough to see without difficulty, although the trees and bushes were merely dark shapes—here a row of evergreens pruned into neat cones, there a massive century-old beech tree. An owl swooped over them in soundless flight, and bats flapped this way and that, darting after insect meals.
“Sarah told me that they have bats in the vicarage, and they can’t do anything about it because they’re protected,” said Sue. “They have to leave an attic window open for them.”
“You know,” mused Lucy as they approached the manor, “you think a country like Britain is pretty much the same as the US except they speak with funny accents, but that’s not true. It’s very different, isn’t it? I mean, you couldn’t expect Americans to tolerate bats in their attics, much less leave windows open for them.”
“You can say that again,” said Sue as the door leading to the stable yard flew open and Vickie tottered out on her ridiculously high heels and fell at their feet.
“Oh, my,” exclaimed Lucy, falling to her knees and cradling the fallen woman’s head. She was sprawled on her back, legs and arms spread wide, and her giggles were interspersed with hiccups. “Are you all right?”
“She’s more than all right,” said Gerald, stepping through the door. “She’s blotto. Stinking drunk.”
“What should we do with her?” asked Sue. “We can’t leave her here.”
“Come on, dearie,” said Gerald, grabbing her by her hands. “Upsy-daisy.”
Lucy and Sue each took a shoulder and together the three managed to get Vickie on her feet, then Gerald took over, wrapping his arm around her waist and supporting her as they made their way to the kitchen door. There, Poppy took one long, cool look at the situation and immediately left the room.
“I guess I’ll be sleeping in my dressing room tonight,” grumbled Gerald as he deposited Vickie in a big armchair.
She giggled a few more times, then passed out.
“We can’t leave her like this,” said Sue. “Someone should stay with her.”
“Well, it can’t be me,” said Gerald. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“I guess it’s us,” said Lucy. “I’ll go up and get some blankets and pillows.”
When she returned with the bedding, Vickie was snoring loudly. Lucy and Sue quickly made up beds on the sofas for themselves, then took turns climbing back upstairs to wash up and change into pajamas. Once she was tucked in, Lucy found the sofa quite comfortable, but wasn’t really able to sleep. She feared Vickie would be sick and there was the possibility she could choke on her vomit. Sue didn’t seem to share Lucy’s anxiety; she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Lucy dozed off from time to time, only to waken with a start then be reassured by Vickie’s regular snores,
Soon after the grandfather clock chimed four times, she did finally fall asleep, only to be wakened around six by Harrison.
“My word,” the maid was exclaiming, “this is a pretty kettle of fish.” She was standing with arms akimbo, surveying the unusual scene. After she’d taken it all in, she sniffed. “Don’t tell me that dreadful pong is over here now.”
“Not that I know of,” said Lucy. “We were worried about her”—she nodded toward Vickie slumped in the chair with a blanket balled up in her lap. “She was a bit under the weather.”
“Humph,” said Harrison. “It’s none of my affair. I’ve got to get her ladyship her morning tea.” She filled the kettle from the sink, then set it on the Aga with a clatter. “Her ladyship didn’t get a wink last night, the smell was that bad.”
Lucy stood up, considered folding up her bedding and decided instead to head upstairs to the bathroom for a much-needed pee. She certainly didn’t want to waste the climb, however, so she gathered up the sheets and blanket and pillow in her arms. After she’d completed her original mission, she remade the stripped bed, then washed up and dressed, before going back downstairs to make some coffee.
Her curiosity got the better of her while she waited for the coffee to be ready. She decided to investigate and made her way through the underground tunnel to the manor house and up the stairs to the landing. When she opened the door to the hallway, a noticeable stench greeted her. It wasn’t as strong as the smell Harrison had described so she proceeded down the hallway, discovering the offensive odor grew stronger with every step. When she reached the midpoint, she found she really couldn’t go on. The evil stench was so overpowering she feared she would vomit. She turned and fled back to the fresher air in the stairway.
Definitely not a mouse, she decided, but something much larger.
Chapter Ten
When Lucy returned to the kitchen, the coffee pot was full of aromatic, freshly brewed coffee and there was no trace of the previous night’s events. Vickie was gone, as was the bedding Sue had used. Sue herself was dressed and made up to her usual perfection. Perry was setting out boxes of cereal and bowls, along with fresh strawberries and a pitcher of milk.
“Help yourselves, ladies,” he said, inviting them to partake. “I’ve got to run. I’ve got to put the finishing touches on the hat exhibit.” He paused and wrinkled his
nose. “But first I’ve got to deal with the pong. It’s become quite atrocious and we’ve had to close the manor to the public.”
“It sure is. I got a whiff and it made me feel quite sick,” said Lucy.
“What is it with you?” asked Sue, who was filling her mug. “Have you got a tummy bug?”
“I don’t think so,” said Lucy, who was eying the strawberries. “I’m okay now. I’m even hungry.”
“It’s enough to make anyone sick,” said Perry. “I have got to get rid of it before tomorrow. Poppy thinks we can get away with one day without attracting unwanted attention, but if we have to close it for longer, we’ll end up on the evening news.” He was standing at the island, sipping coffee from a mug. “Speaking of pleasanter things, I was working with the art students yesterday, you know, and I’ve got to say, even though I shouldn’t, that the hat show is really quite fantastic.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Sue.
“Well, do drop in anytime and tell me what you think,” said Perry, stashing his mug in the dishwasher. “I would really appreciate your input, as they say.”
“Okay,” said Sue, who was filling her mug. “I’ll go take a look.”
“As for me, ‘it is a far, far better thing that I do . . .’ ” he said, quoting Dickens and wrapping a handkerchief across his face, bandit-style. “ ‘All in the valley of death rode the six hundred,’ ” he continued, moving on to Tennyson and grabbing an umbrella from the stand. For dramatic effect, he flourished it like a sword.
“Such a fuss,” said Sue, smiling indulgently.
“It is truly dreadful,” he said, loosening the handkerchief and letting it hang around his neck. “I don’t blame Aunt for complaining, but I’ve looked and looked in her room and can’t find anything.”
“Perhaps there’s a secret chamber,” said Sue.
“I rather doubt it, since nobody’s ever mentioned one and it would be rather an attraction if we had one. We don’t even have a ghost, which a lot of our visitors find disappointing. They simply love the idea of Katherine Howard’s ghost shrieking her innocence at Hampton Court, apparently wandering about with her head tucked under her arm. I’ve asked Willoughby to do some research, but he hasn’t come up with anything along those lines.” He sighed and replaced the handkerchief over his nose. “ ‘Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell,’ ” he declared, marching out of the room.
Sue had only coffee for breakfast, but Lucy was used to eating a hearty breakfast so she busied herself filling her bowl with several Weetabix biscuits, topped them with a couple scoops of luscious berries, and drowned it all in deliciously rich double cream.
“That cream is twice as rich as heavy cream,” said Sue, watching with a raised eyebrow.
“Tastes like it, too,” said Lucy, licking her spoon.
“A minute on the lips, a year on the hips,” Sue added, then left to view the exhibit, taking her coffee mug with her.
Finding herself alone in the kitchen and noticing the sunlight flooding through the windows, Lucy decided to take her breakfast out to the terrace. She seated herself at a glass-topped table, savoring both her delicious breakfast and the incredible beauty of the manor house. She gazed at the ancient stone building while she ate, taking note of the intricate stone carvings and marveling at the work of the medieval stone carvers and masons who’d created them. There were gargoyles and pointy little turrets topped with graceful finials, and each window had an elaborately worked casing with rosettes at each corner. The stair tower, she decided, was especially fine with its neat oriel windows which rose in a spiral fashion, winding around the tower. A lacy band of carved stonework emphasized the unusual window placement, and ended at a huge round clock face with carved roman numerals and single massive black iron hand. The clock, a sixteenth century masterpiece, was still keeping time and ringing out the hours. It was no wonder that the stair tower had been chosen as a symbol to represent the manor and appeared on the admission tickets, most of the gift shop merchandise like mugs and tea towels, as well as all the promotional material.
As she studied the beautiful stair tower, she found something was bothering her. Something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t figure it out. In her mind, she climbed the stairs, retracing the climb she’d made on that first day when Willoughby gave her and Sue a tour. They’d progressed up the spiraling flights of shallow steps, designed, Willoughby had said, so that ladies in long skirts could glide gracefully up and down. The oriel windows followed the line of the stairs, set aslant, and offering impressionistic views of the estate park through wavy old glass. Each landing offered a window seat in case the climber should grow tired and need a rest . . . or perhaps a perch for a quick dalliance.
She was still gazing at the elaborate staircase and spooning up the last bit of strawberries and cream when Sue appeared. She was carrying her jacket and tote bag on her arm and was ready to go out for the day.
“Don’t tell me you’re still eating?” she exclaimed. “Our driver is here and times a-wasting.”
“No problem,” said Lucy, remembering that she and Sue had planned to spend the day touring Windsor Castle. “I’ll just take the breakfast things in and grab my bag. I won’t be a moment.”
Hurrying into the kitchen, she was happy to see that Sally was at the sink loading the dishwasher. “I’ve got a few more for you,” Lucy said, handing off the tray. Then she bounded up the stairs, pausing in her room only to grab her bag and a light jacket, and to slap on some lipstick. She dashed down, quick as a bunny, and met Sue on the terrace.
They had a different driver, a young fellow they hadn’t met before. “I’m Justin Quimby,” he said, introducing himself. He looked like a younger version of Harold, albeit with sun-bleached hair and a muscular build.
“Are you related to Harold?” asked Sue.
“I’m his son,” he said, opening the car doors for them.
“And you work here, too?” asked Lucy, as Sue grabbed the front passenger seat and she climbed in the back.
“Only part-time. I’m at university.”
“Which university?” asked Sue as he got behind the wheel of the Land Rover.
“Cambridge,” he said, shifting into gear and taking off down the drive. He drove much faster than his father.
“And what are you studying?” asked Lucy.
“Physics.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, realizing she’d gone as far as she could on that line of conversation. “And what do you do for fun?”
“I’m kind of a keen climber,” he admitted, swerving to avoid a bus full of day-trippers.
“Mountains?” asked Sue. “Like Mount Everest?”
“No, that sort of thing isn’t for me. All that packing and planning. I like to go freestyle, without equipment. I see something interesting and I climb it. Most of my climbs are about twenty or thirty minutes.”
“What can you climb in twenty minutes?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, say, church towers, cliffs, all sorts of things.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” asked Sue.
“Especially if you don’t use ropes and stuff,” added Lucy.
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” asked Justin, zooming onto the highway between two large trucks.
“We’d actually prefer to get to Windsor in one piece,” said Lucy as Justin wove his way through traffic, seizing the tiniest openings to pass slower cars and trucks.
“Relax, Lucy. Justin is a very good driver,” said Sue, giving him her most flirtatious smile.
“It’s my tummy again,” said Lucy, who never got carsick or seasick or airsick, but would say anything to get Justin to drive more carefully. “I’m feeling . . .”
Justin, she was happy to see, took the hint and eased up on the gas.
Sue, however, wasn’t pleased. “You shouldn’t have eaten such a rich breakfast,” she said, admonishing Lucy.
“I know that now,” said Lucy, relaxing her hold on the grab bar. Her fingers were quite stif
f, she realized, massaging them briefly until Justin made another sharp swerve around a poky van and she had to hang on for dear life.
They made it to Windsor, much to Lucy’s amazement, and Justin dropped them off at the entrance to the castle, arranging to meet them at the train station at four o’clock. After paying the hefty entrance fee, they entered the walled castle enclosure and were amazed at the size of the complex, which included numerous buildings around the old round tower. They dutifully trooped through amazing rooms, including the magnificent banquet hall that had been restored after a devastating fire.
Sue was impressed by Henry VIII’s enormous suit of armor, which she said with a meaningful glance in Lucy’s direction, was an excellent example of the effect of an untamed appetite. Lucy preferred the Queen’s Dolls House, a replica of Buckingham Palace that had been made as a present for Queen Mary and featured tiny versions of the castle’s contents contributed by British manufacturers. Saint George’s Chapel, where Henry VIII and his favorite wife, Jane Seymour, were buried was the last stop on the tour.
“It’s a fine example of perpendicular architecture,” said Sue, reading from the guide. She looked up at the lofty ceiling and added, “I guess that means it’s quite tall.”
“It’s spooky,” said Lucy, gazing at the stone tablets marking the royal graves. “Henry VIII was a terrible man. If you ask me, six wives is five too many.”
“I guess being able to have and do whatever you want, including having your wives beheaded, probably isn’t good for your character. And if that suit of armor is an accurate indication, he must have been a glutton,” said Sue, adding a little moue of distaste.
She pointed to the little balcony in one corner. It hung beneath the ceiling and was completely enclosed with wood paneling except for a small window. “That’s called the queen’s closet. It’s where the queen and her ladies sat, able to watch without being watched.”
Lucy gazed at the odd little feature, imagining what it was like to be a queen in the sixteenth century and concluding that despite her humble status, she was much better off as an ordinary middle-class woman in the twenty-first century.
