by Harriet Hahn
For a moment Lord Henry looked dazed, and then he began to smile.
“Of course,” he said, and trotted off to the desk, where he and the young woman were in conference briefly, and she returned with him to affix a red dot to the card. Helena had now sold two paintings.
“The others seem to have sold almost everything? How come no one buys a Helena Haakon?” I asked the young woman.
“Well, you see, no one knows her yet, and everyone is afraid to make a mistake. Some people even ignore her work because they don’t know her name. It’s a shame. I’ll bet if they took a little time with her things, she might sell a few.”
James was listening.
The next afternoon there was no James in Baron’s Chambers to greet me. There was, however, a small commotion up at the King Street Gallery. I went to investigate. Inside the gallery there were a number of people and some excitement.
A group was collected around one of Helena’s canvases, and in front of them was a big silver cat, tottering on his hind legs, sweeping his front paws in a wide gesture that asked one and all to inspect the picture on the wall.
Of course, he lost his balance, but just as quickly regained his pose without any indication of confusion. After a few sweeping gestures, he leaped on a chair and patted the identifying card. Then he sat on the chair and glared at the crowd.
To my surprise, a fat man disengaged himself from the crowd and headed for the desk in the back, and the attractive young woman appeared shortly with a red dot and affixed it to the card.
James smiled a patronizing smile and left the gallery with great dignity.
I stopped to talk to the young woman.
“He sold them all!” she said in wonder. “He has worked that routine for the last three days. He did not always succeed, and it took him some time, but he insisted that people look at her paintings. His act amused them, and as a result the paintings sold.”
“Does Helena know?” I asked.
“I’ll call her this minute and tell her about the last one,” said the young woman, and left me.
I walked home in a bit of a daze to find Lord Henry, Helena, and James at the front door waiting. We went into the building, rode up in the elevator, and entered my apartment.
I poured us all a little drink, and we sat sipping whiskey and eating some lobster paste I had laid in. I told them about the final sale and explained James’s role in the event.
Helena picked James up and hugged him. James himself was torn between delight at being hugged by Helena, and distress that at that moment he had no dignity at all.
“Thank you. You are not only a great painter, but an even greater marketer,” she said as she put him down.
James shook himself and tried to recover his world-weary expression, but failed utterly. Grinning, he turned somersaults on the floor and chased imaginary mice while we giggled and laughed until Mrs. March came to collect him. He was so ebullient he forgot his game and grinned at Mrs. March, rubbing himself against her legs.
“Aren’t you the one, though,” she said, blushing furiously, and they scurried away.
CHAPTER 4
As the days shortened toward winter, James settled comfortably into his wider life. He supervised the new arrivals at Baron’s Chambers, checked out the Great Room at Thwaite’s, and occasionally stopped by the gallery on King Street.
Sometimes, safely tucked in the carrying bag, he went with me to see Helena, who was working in her studio on an illustration commission that had come her way after the exhibition.
Often Lord Henry, Helena, and I would meet at Baron’s for a drink and a chat before James went home to Mrs. March, and the rest of us went out to dinner.
One blustery afternoon, James sat on the bar, occasionally lapping whiskey from his saucer, his eyes barely open, and Lord Henry sat disconsolately on the sofa, his usual enthusiasm gone.
“I have to go to Haverstock Hall for the holidays, and I’m not looking forward to it,” he said.
I waited. Lord Henry is a shy man who talks very infrequently about his own feelings, though he is unusually sensitive to, and considerate of, the feelings of others.
“Well, it’s this damned tradition I must keep up,” Lord Henry went on. “Have to have this holiday wassail reception for the village.”
He stopped again, took a sip of his own whiskey, and stared out into the darkness.
James slipped off the bar and hopped onto the sofa next to him. Abstractedly, Lord Henry lifted his arm and James slipped onto his lap.
Pretty soon, Lord Henry began to talk to James.
“Every year, we—my wife and I—used to open Haverstock Hall at Christmastime, and everyone in the neighborhood came in for a drink of cheer, carolers sang, and later, on Christmas day, we went to services in our parish church and joined everyone else in a holiday party. I played Santa and distributed small presents to the children. We loved it, and it seemed that everyone else did too. Then my wife died and my sister came down from her home in Scotland to ‘help me out.’ Instead, she took over.” He shook his head sadly. “Oh, James, she is such a cold fish, and such a snob. Now there is no food and punch and singing. She makes everyone file in, receive an apple, and go home. I could do the whole thing myself now. It is nearly five years since my wife died, but I cannot dislodge Etheria. We don’t go to church because she says it is inappropriate for us, as aristocrats, to mingle with the common people. I don’t want to do any of it, but I don’t know how to get out of it. In fact, this year I thought of asking her not to come, but she beat me to it. She’s there now. After all, it was her family home too, once.”
He stroked James and sighed miserably. James’s scheming expression appeared. He patted Lord Henry softly and moved restlessly off the sofa as a knock came at the door. It was Mrs. March, but she did not make her usual remark about James.
“I’m going on a holiday over Christmas and New Year’s,” she announced. “I’m leaving everything in the hands of Mr. Merriwell, so you’ll have nothing to worry about. If you need anything, just call him. Is James here, by the way?”
James was in his usual spot on the stairs, but his expression had changed drastically with the mention of Mr. Merriwell. He was snarling fiercely. He stomped after Mrs. March in a rage.
For the next few days, James was distracted and Lord Henry was depressed. Then a distraught Helena came by. The heat had failed in her flat, and no one could tell when it would be fixed. She was trying to work in gloves, and not succeeding. We all sat in gloom. On the floor was a copy of Stately English Country Houses, open to a picture of Haverstock Hall.
James paced the floor; at last he stopped, looked long at the picture, then jumped on Lord Henry’s lap and tapped him sharply on the cheek.
“What is it, old chap?” Lord Henry asked.
James waved a paw to include us all, and jumped onto the picture.
“I say!” said Lord Henry, beaming. “The very thing! You will all come to Haverstock Hall for the holidays. Helena can set up a studio in the west wing, and James can take on Etheria!” Lord Henry began to chuckle.
Helena and I had no problems. We accepted immediately. James presented a problem. We would love to take him, but would Mr. Merriwell let him go?
There was a timid knock at the door. Mr. Merriwell, a small, pale man, stood at the door.
“Is J-J-James here?” he stuttered.
James hissed and arched his back, and his ruff swelled.
“Please, G-G-God!” prayed Mr. Merriwell. He looked terrified. James hissed again and bared his teeth.
“Would you mind very much if I borrowed James for a couple of weeks?” I asked, now sure of the answer. “You see, Lord Henry has asked him to Haverstock Hall for the holidays.”
“Yes, indeed,” added Lord Henry, who had joined me. “We will take excellent care of him, and return him safe and sound after New Year’s.”
For a moment Mr. Merriwell seemed stunned. James lunged.
“Oh, y-y-yes, indeed. I thi
nk that would be wonderful,” Mr. Merriwell said hurriedly. James subsided.
“Splendid,” said Lord Henry. “We’ll pick him up tomorrow morning.” James gave us a conspiratorial look and stalked upstairs, Mr. Merriwell following him.
And so it was that we four friends packed ourselves into Lord Henry’s sports car (while all our gear was stowed into a station wagon driven by Lord Henry’s chauffeur) and headed for Haverstock Hall, in Devon, in the cold and the rain, to deal with Etheria and Christmas.
We drove through the farmland that had once belonged to the Haverstocks, past the parish church with its graveyard full of Haverstocks, past the pub, the butcher shop, the grocery, and on to a pair of stone pillars guarding a driveway. After a rainy drive through a park, we finally arrived at a large, impressive gray stone house, a tiny part of which dated from 1530. Various Haverstocks had added wings and ells and fronts and backs over the years, so the whole building had a sort of jumbled, messy look. It had an imposing façade with pillars and a long sweep of stairs to the massive front door. Out of this door a footman came running with an open umbrella, and ushered us inside. We entered a huge, walnut-paneled hall, dark with the smoke of centuries, from which rose the massive staircase. Lord Henry led us to the left, into a very large drawing room where a fire blazed in a stone hearth and shadows raced around the walls. The firelight glinted off the gilding on the woodwork, and sparkled in the chandeliers. Uncomfortable gold-and-white furniture was arranged around the room.
Coming toward us was a stout woman in a tight corset and a gray silk dress. She wore pince-nez glasses through which she peered with large gray eyes. The corners of her small mouth were pulled down in distress, and her chin disappeared in her scarf. Lord Henry’s sister, Etheria, was taller than Helena and towered over Lord Henry, who seemed to shrink in her presence.
“Henry,” she trilled in a high voice. Then she looked at the rest of us. That is, all of us except James, who had entered the room as though he owned it, and was, at the moment, toasting himself in front of the fire.
“Who are these people?” she snapped.
Lord Henry made introductions in a sheepish way.
She turned away to look at the fire.
“What is that!” she cried in alarm.
“My friend James,” said Lord Henry.
“Well, get rid of it,” Etheria demanded. She stepped to the wall by the door and pulled the bell.
It was answered very shortly by a white-haired butler.
“Wilson, get rid of that,” said Etheria, pointing at James.
“Wilson,” said Lord Henry, very firmly, “that is James, my very good friend, and he is to be treated as one of the family. Do you understand?”
Wilson nodded. “Of course, Lord Henry, and permit me to say welcome home.”
“Thank you, Wilson, and will you bring some whiskey and something to eat to the library? We have had a long trip.”
“Certainly, sir.” Wilson bowed. “Your bags have been put in your rooms, and Johnson is unpacking now, so everything should be ready for you after lunch.”
Wilson turned to Etheria. “Will you be joining us for lunch, Madam?” he asked.
“Good heavens, no,” said Etheria in a disgusted tone. “I am having lunch with the Marchioness of Wilter.” She turned to Lord Henry. “If you must have that beast here, keep it out of my way.” As she made this last remark, James, looking his sweetest, rubbed himself against her legs and twined himself about her, mewing piteously.
“Agh,” screamed Etheria, and fled from the room.
The library, warmed by a fire, was filled with comfortable leather sofas and chairs and plenty of books. We all had a drink and a delicious lunch served by Wilson, and began to feel better. James ate a sampling of sausage and lentil soup and lay on the sofa next to Lord Henry and took a nap like the rest of us.
In the next few days, James fell in love with Haverstock Hall, exploring it from top to bottom. Helena set herself up in one of the larger rooms in what she called the west wing, though it faced north, and Lord Henry and I took to cataloging the china in one of the pantries. On Sunday, Helena suggested we attend services at the parish church and meet the rector and see about reestablishing the old tradition. Lord Henry was delighted, and off we went. Etheria did not accompany us, but James did.
In fact, Etheria spent very little time with us. She was never at home for lunch, as she seemed to have a large group of titled friends who gave lunch parties. She was often home for dinner, but as soon as she entered the drawing room, where before-dinner drinks were served at her request, James with a sickeningly sweet expression on his face, rubbed himself against her legs, jumped on her lap, and attempted to lick her face. He tried his best in every way he could to show her his undying affection.
Etheria hated him. “Go away!” she would shriek. James was deaf to her pleas. We ate dinner in the formal dining room, all dressed in formal clothes. That is, Etheria was dressed in a formal gown, Helena wore a long peasant skirt and a sweater, and Lord Henry wore a velvet smoking jacket. Immediately after dinner, which James preferred to eat in the kitchen, where he had made friends with the cook, we would adjourn to the library to watch television, read, or talk. Etheria did not join us.
On Sunday, as arranged, we went to eleven-o’clock services in the parish church, a simple, old-fashioned stone edifice with a particularly handsome altar screen and an old vicar who greeted Lord Henry warmly.
“It’s been a long time. We’ve missed you,” said the vicar.
“Yes,” said Lord Henry soberly.
During the service, the congregation paid more attention to us than to the vicar, and afterward an old woman with a red wool cap and a sturdy cane came diffidently up to Helena and me.
“You’re a friend of Lord Henry’s,” she said softly. “Do you suppose you could persuade him to give out the small gifts we have for the children at the Christmas party? It would make it a real event and would mean a lot to the members of the parish; Sort of the way it used to be.”
Helena smiled her glowing smile. “I’m sure he would love to. Just a moment. I’ll ask him right now.” And she left to interrupt the vicar and Lord Henry. She returned almost immediately.
“I was right, he would be delighted!” she told the old woman. “And may we all come to the party?”
“Oh, how nice!” cried the old woman, beaming. “Of course, we’d love to have you all, even the honorable Miss Haverstock, if she wants to come.” The last was added without enthusiasm.
“I don’t think she will want to come,” Helena said encouragingly. “So you needn’t worry.”
Time, place, and circumstances were settled on the spot.
Helena and the old woman shook hands and we made our way through a crowd of children who had assembled, picked up Lord Henry, and started out across the fields to Haverstock Hall. James was confused by stubble, shrubs, rabbits, squirrels, and birds, and sighed as though he had suffered a severe travail when we at last reached the safety of the hall. He saluted Wilson with a cheery wave of his tail, and raced up the grand staircase.
We were not so lucky. Wilson told us there were guests for lunch, who were already assembled in the drawing room. Old friends of Lady Etheria, he indicated. We peered in, and suddenly Helena looked apprehensive.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I really have work to do. Will you make my excuses?”
Of course we would. No one had mentioned this gathering before we left, but there was nothing for it but to go in and face the assembly.
Etheria introduced me in a sort of cursory fashion to the Marquis and Marchioness of Wilter, the Honorable Lucy Poole, who was a middle-aged woman in a lavender dress with a lavender face and almost lavender hair, and a tall woman in tweed who had been in church with us, but did not remark on that event. Her name was Fumia Wettin, and Etheria indicated that she came from a very fine family but had no title.
Lord Henry knew them all. He called the Marquis, who was a big, athletic man,
“Bunko.” The Marquis called Lord Henry “Punky.”
Conversation was restrained, and drinks served sluggishly. Lunch progressed and we were treated by Etheria to a dissertation on the decay of manners, which was interrupted by a veritable explosion at the moment she stopped to refresh her throat with a drink of wine. Red wine was sprayed all over the tablecloth as she choked and shrieked intermittently.
The Honorable Lucy Poole was so unmannerly as to give a giggle through a mouthful of food, and was immediately attacked by a fit of choking and shrieking at the same time, spraying little bits of green parsley over her end of the table.
I intentionally dropped my napkin on the floor, and in stooping to pick it up, I looked under the long tablecloth to discover a pair of glowing golden eyes winking at me.
“Go look after Helena,” I hissed.
I heard a sharp gasp from Fumia Wettin, and then silence.
The rest of the lunch was subdued, once the mess created by the two women was repaired. At the end of lunch, Bunko and Punky went to the billiard room, and with the excuse of work to do, I was summarily excused. I raced to Helena’s studio. She was not there, but from the room next door, which served as a sort of storage room, I heard exclamations of delight. There was Helena, holding in her hands a wonderful velvet robe of emerald green. On top of the open armoire from which it had come sat at a grinning James. His explorations had borne fruit.
“It is gorgeous, isn’t it?” she exclaimed.
James nodded.
“I think I’ll wear it sometime, if Lord Henry doesn’t mind.”
James grinned. He looked his most evil. I thought he had something planned.
We had started downstairs for the billiard room in the late afternoon when we heard an altercation going on. Etheria’s high-pitched voice was clearly audible.
“Henry, your behavior is a disgrace,” she was saying. “You have a position to uphold, and you are simply paying no attention to the loyalty you owe your class. Everyone will think you are allied with the riffraff you associate with. I won’t have it!”
We started to hurry on so as not to eavesdrop on this embarrassing scene, but James forbade it. He put his ear to the door. We waited.
