chapter eighteen

Olivia and Perry were perched atop the stone wall which divided the upper South slope from the lower South field, watching Amy trundle a toy wheelbarrow about on the winter-faded grass. The boy and his aunt were having one of their frequent “serious” talks. It was an unusually balmy day for early March, and Olivia had decided to permit the children to spend part of the afternoon in the open air, for they had just endured several weeks of cold and depressing rain. While Amy’s goloshoes squelched through the soggy grass behind her little red barrow, Perry and Olivia swung their legs in the air and held their faces up to drink in the sun’s faint warmth. “If I were truly Gorgana,” Olivia said, “I would devise an enchanted spell which would make every day just like today.”

“If I were Gorgana,” Perry argued, “I would make it snow every day. I love the snow.”

“Really?” Olivia asked, turning to study him. “Why?”

“Because it’s such great fun. You can play in it, and make snowballs and build forts—”

“Like the fort you and your father built during the last snowfall?”

“Yes. That was the best snow fort I ever saw, wasn’t it, Aunt Livie?”

“The best. Did you like building it?”

“Oh, yes, more than anything!”

“And did you like having your father help you with it?”

“Yes, I truly did.” The boy pouted suddenly. “I wish he was at home. When will he be home, Aunt Livie?”

“Soon, I think. And you’ll show him how well you are riding, and you’ll tell him all you’ve learned about the Plantagenets, too.”

“And even the Tudors,” Perry added proudly. “I hope he comes before I forget. Do you know, Aunt Livie, when I was a little boy, I was afraid of Papa?”

“Were you, dearest?”

“Yes. Very. He seemed to be so huge, you know. Like the giant on top of the beanstalk. And he always seemed so very angry, too.”

“Did he indeed?”

“I suppose he seemed so because I was smaller then. But it’s all right now that I’ve grown.”

“I’m glad. It doesn’t do to be afraid of anyone, Perry, love. There are no real giants, you know. Not on top of beanstalks or anywhere else.”

“I know.” Perry sighed philosophically. “There are no monsters, either. Or ghosts. Only in people’s minds, like Sir Budgidore.”

“Do you mean to say that you understand that Sir Budgidore was only imaginary?”

“Oh, yes. I always understood that. It’s just that I could see him, sort of. Almost real, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, love. Do you miss him now that he’s gone?”

“Not very much. After we had that ceremony for him, I stopped thinking much about him. Do you suppose he’s gone to the special place where Mama has gone and that they can both watch over us?”

Olivia put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him. “No one knows the answers to such questions, dearest. But it’s lovely to think so.”

Perry’s father had been absent almost six weeks when this conversation took place. It had been a time of considerable change for Perry. Olivia had been quite concerned for the boy. His tutor had gone first, and Olivia had noted that Perry had seemed to be very upset by Mr. Clapham’s departure. She readily sympathized with the boy’s feelings, but after a bit of thinking she began to understand what had been the real cause of the boy’s distress. Perry, shaken by the events of the past year, had developed a tendency to cling to routine. He liked everything to stay the same. He clung to the familiar—to people he was accustomed to and to schedules he had come to expect. Change was threatening to him. Change meant loss.

Olivia, mulling over the matter, knew that Perry would not be able to live a life without change. No one could. Things and people changed all the time; there was no way to prevent it. Therefore Perry would have to learn to accept it. For that reason, Olivia tried to shake him from routine. Some days she would tutor him in his studies at the scheduled hours, but often she would surprise him by calling off the lessons completely. Sometimes she permitted him to sleep late, and sometimes she woke him early enough to watch the sunrise. Sometimes she and Elspeth and Amy spent the entire day with him, and sometimes she encouraged him to spend almost the entire day on his own, to devise his own ways of passing the time.

It was not until Elspeth left for London, however, that Olivia could determine how well her plan was working. For several weeks, Elspeth had been training the maid, Tilda, to take her place. Tilda was only nineteen, and she had not received the kind of education that Elspeth had, but she was warmhearted, cheerful and had had several years of schooling at a charity school in Leicestershire where she’d been raised. She could read remarkably well, and she wrote in a fine hand. If she could not give Amy lessons in music or drawing, it was not a great problem. Music and drawing masters could be hired later. And when Perry’s new tutor would arrive, he could no doubt instruct Amy in those subjects in which Tilda was deficient. The primary trait which Olivia and Elspeth agreed was needed in the governess who would replace Elspeth was loving warmth, and that Tilda possessed in good measure.

Elspeth longed to return to London, but she would gladly have postponed the gratification of her desires indefinitely if the children needed her. Olivia, however, did not think that an indefinite postponement of Elspeth’s departure would help the children to learn to face the vicissitudes of life. About two weeks after Strickland’s departure (Olivia having noted that both Perry and Amy seemed reasonably content in his absence), Olivia convinced Elspeth that it was time for her to take her leave.

To Olivia’s great relief, Perry bid the governess a fond goodbye without the slightest sign of inward distress. The boy had, in fact, taken a strong liking to Tilda because of her carefree manner and easy laughter and was thus able to say goodbye to Elspeth without pain. It was the placid, easy-going Amy who surprised Olivia. The child did something she had never done before—she threw herself down on the floor of the nursery and screamed, “I want my Elthpeth! I want my Elthpeth!” She kicked her chubby legs up and down and pounded her little fists on the carpet, wailing and weeping furiously.

“But she’s only gone to marry Uncle Charles,” Perry explained to his hysterical sister calmly. “She’ll be back to see us.”

But his assurances were of no avail. Olivia took him from the room, and the two of them waited until Amy’s tantrum had spent itself. Then they reentered, and Olivia, lifting the still-sobbing child to her lap, carefully explained that Elspeth was soon to be her aunt instead of her governess. “Won’t it be lovely to have two aunts instead of only me?”

“W-Wiw she bwing m-me thome beads when she c-cometh back?” Amy asked, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

And so the crisis passed, the children accepted the altered circumstances of their lives without any other signs of emotional impairment, and Elspeth went off to London to be married. Olivia was unable, of course, to attend the wedding, but she learned all the details of the affair from the various letters she received from the participants.

Charles sent a letter filled with ecstatic exaggerations of a joyful, flawless, ideal ceremony; no bride had ever been so beautiful and no wedding vows had ever been more meaningful. Elspeth’s note was all breathless effusion. Olivia read both letters to her chaperones as they sat at the dinner table. But while Hattie and Eugenia set to bickering over the relative merits of a large wedding over a small one, Olivia pulled from her sleeve a letter from her brother James and silently reread it. Jamie had written her favorite account of the wedding—the only account which gave her a clear and truthful picture of the event.

It was just the sort of scrambled affair, Jamie had written, that only our family can contrive—a kind of frenzied misadventure from the start. Elspeth arrived without warning quite late at night, and Charles, with his newly awakened sense of propriety, would not permit her to spend the night under our roof for fear of “compromising” her. Nothing would do but that I should find a suitable hotel for her. But, of course, he didn’t want her to stay at a hotel for one night longer than absolutely necessary, so a special license had to be arranged. One needs the signature of a bishop for a special license, you know, so Charles applied to Father. “Of course I am acquainted with a bishop,” Father declared and launched into a long tale about a chap he knew at Eton who’d later distinguished himself in the clergy, etc. etc. But as you might have expected, Father didn’t quite remember the bishop’s name! It took hours of reminiscences and pulling out of old schoolbooks before the name was positively identified. The next day, Charles went in search of the eminent clergyman only to discover that the fellow had been dead for more than a dozen years!

It was Lord Strickland who came to the rescue. He and Charles have been thick as thieves of late, you know. He took matters into his own hands and procured a special license within a day. He’s completely up to the mark, old Strickland, whatever you may think of his libertine qualities, Livie, for if it weren’t for him, the entire wedding business would have been a disaster. The best thing that ever happened to this family was Clara’s marriage to him—and you may take my word on that.

In any case, with a special license in hand, we all—Father, Charles, Strickland and I—climbed into Strickland’s carriage and drove to the hotel to pick up the bride. We found her waiting eagerly, all dressed in her governess’s Sunday best—a gray kerseymere gown and the dowdiest bonnet I’ve ever laid eyes on. Well, Strickland took one look at her and announced that we must all have tea before we set out for church. Before we knew it, he’d hired the hotel’s best private parlour and had ushered us to our places round a well-laden tea-table. Then, assuring us that he would be back before we’d finished the repast, he took himself off.

Within the hour, he returned, carrying a hat box which he presented to the bride with a charmingly humorous flourish. When Elspeth beheld the flowery confection inside, she promptly indulged in what I later learned was her habitual way of dealing with life—a burst of waterworks. But when she saw herself in the glass in her new bridal bonnet, her eyes truly shone. I must admit, Livie, that it was not until I saw her in that hat—a straw concoction with a deep poke and a row of flowers around the crown—that I realized what a pretty thing she is.

When we arrived at the church, the parson was nowhere in evidence. Strickland, of course, was the one who went to find him. But by the time he returned with the parson in tow. Father had disappeared. He was nowhere to be found. After searching the place for more than half-an-hour, I discovered him in a tiny room—a closet, really, like an ambry—behind the vestry, sitting on an overturned pail and reading avidly a yellowed old manuscript he’d somehow come upon. It was all I could do to pry him away from his discovery—he swore it was fifteenth century and “quite revealing of the changes in Latinate style which had come into being after Thomas á Kempis.” He had to be reminded that his eldest son was about to be married and that he himself was expected to give the bride away!

The ceremony itself passed uneventfully. Father leading the bride in with proper, if absent-minded, dignity, and your humble servant standing up for Charles in—if I may be permitted to say so—grand style. But after the ceremony, Father delayed the return to the house (where Cook must have been tearing her hair out over the ruination of the wedding feast she’d been preparing for the past thirty-six hours) in order to explain to the parson that a manuscript of such scholarly value as the one he’d discovered should not be so carelessly stowed in an unused storage space. A lengthy discussion of fifteenth-century clerical Latin ensued until Strickland interfered, distracting Father with a promise to provide funds to restore the manuscript to its original condition. He took Father’s arm in his and, while asking his advice about whom to consult about the restoration, managed to maneuver him out of the building.

Thus your brother was married, after which ordeal we all returned to the house and merrily consumed that part of the wedding dinner which had not been burned or dried out during the delay.

Looking back on it, I must admit that the day had been enormously entertaining. I only wish that you had been there to share in the festivities.

Olivia slipped the letter back into her sleeve and smiled to herself. Her brother’s letter had brought the wedding vividly to life for her. It was quite like her family to make a muddle of the wedding in just that style. Charles had always been a sensible, feet-on-the-ground fellow, but love must have made him into the head-in-the-clouds sort. As for her father, however, he could be counted on to make a goodly number of absent-minded blunders. And Elspeth, with her ready tears, was eccentric enough to fit right in. It was only Strickland whose behavior was unexpected. He had been more thoughtful and kind than she would ever have supposed, even though Jamie had been mistaken in assuming that she still thought badly of him. Strickland could be selfish and stubborn at times, but he could be generous too. It had been many months since she’d thought of him as a monsterish libertine. In truth, this evidence of his kindness to her family during the wedding was only one of a number of signs which showed him to be, as Clara had once told her, a man of character.

The man of character had been gone six weeks when, without a word of warning, his carriage drew up at the door. It was followed by another equipage as grand as Strickland’s—a traveling coach with shiny blue panels and brass fittings and bearing a crest upon the door which indicated that it carried behind its curtained windows one or more members of a decidedly noble family. The impressive equipage drew the attention of Aunt Eugenia, who remarked to Hattie that Strickland had returned with a gaggle of guests. “Top-of-the-trees, from the look of them,” she announced gleefully, her nose pressed to the window of the upstairs sitting room. “Two gentlemen and two … no, three ladies … and all dressed in the first style of elegance. How delightful. We shall have a bit of excitement at last.”

“We shall have noise and confusion, that’s what we shall have!” Hattie responded acidly. “Nothing but noise and confusion.”

While the guests were climbing from the carriages, Olivia was up in the schoolroom where she, Tilda and the children were engaged in learning the rudiments of watercolor painting. Several hours had been happily spent in dabbing dripping colors upon large white sheets of paper and evaluating the effects. There had been much effort, much failure and much laughter. Amy had dabbed more color on her face, hands and apron than on her painting; and even the others were significantly besmirched. In the midst of this absorbing but begriming activity, word reached Olivia that his lordship had just arrived and was asking for her.

With an eager cry, she jumped up and ran to the stairway, the two overjoyed youngsters at her heels. Warning Tilda to take the children’s hands on the stairway, she flew ahead of them down five of the six flights of stairs, her heart hammering in delight. She had not the slightest premonition of the sight that was about to meet her eyes. “Miles, you’re back!” she clarioned as she rounded the bend of the staircase and came to the top of the last flight. “Why didn’t you wr—? Oh! Good heavens!”

There below her was what seemed to be a crowd of strangers, all looking up at her quizzically. She had a quick impression of gleaming jewels, waving feathers, luxurious furs. Elegantly gowned ladies were handing their outer garments to Fincher as he moved among them. An impeccably dressed gentleman was handing over his beaver while another was shrugging out of his greatcoat. Strickland, who’d evidently been introducing Aunt Eugenia and Cousin Hattie to his guests, had turned round at the sound of Olivia’s voice and was looking up at her. “Ah, there you are, Olivia,” he said in greeting.

Standing among his fashionable friends, Strickland looked the most elegant of all. Olivia had not before realized quite how handsome he was. He was taller than any of the others, and the impressive width of his shoulders was emphasized by his caped greatcoat of soft brown wool. The greatcoat hung open, casually revealing a modish town coat of dark-brown superfine which Olivia had never before seen him wear. To add to the unfamiliar stylishness of his appearance, she noted that he’d had his hair cut in a new and rather dashing style, although the gray at his temples had become a bit more perceptible. He looked every inch a gentleman of marked distinction.

The impressive stylishness of his appearance suddenly made her conscious of the shabbiness of her own. She remembered with horror that she was wearing an old, faded muslin gown which she’d carelessly stained with watercolors, and her hands flew, almost of their own accord to her hair which she surmised was hideously tousled. But her eyes never left his face. His polite and rather distant smile widened to a grin. “Well, aren’t you going to say anything? Have you forgotten how to speak in my absence?”

She smiled back at him, feeling unaccountably shy. “I … it’s very good to have you back,” she said awkwardly, wondering desperately whether it was necessary to continue on down the stairs to make her greetings or if it would be very shocking to turn and run upstairs to hide.

Her problem was solved by the appearance of the children. They paused for only a moment at her side, for it took only the first glimpse of their father to send them scurrying on down the stairs. Amy leaped from the fourth step right into her father’s arms while Perry rushed on, tumbling against him and hugging him enthusiastically about the waist. If Strickland was annoyed by this unusual laxity of behavior, he made no sign. He buried his face in his daughter’s neck while he lifted his son up to his shoulder with his other arm, for a moment surrendering to his joy in the reunion. Olivia felt her throat constrict at the sight of it.

But Eugenia would not let the moment pass without comment. “Have you no manners, children?” she chided. “Such untrammeled wildness will not do! Miles, dear boy, put them down at once and let them make their bows.”

But Strickland, meanwhile, had taken a look at their faces. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed in amused surprise, “what’s that you’ve smeared on your faces? You look like a couple of red Indians.”

The guests had crowded round and were exchanging indulgent smiles. Olivia, shamefacedly remembering the perfect decorum with which the children were made to greet their father when Clara was alive, ran down the steps and took the children from her brother-in-law. “I’m sorry, Miles,” she said in a breathless undervoice. Then, looking up embarrassedly at the faces staring into hers, she explained, “We’ve been working with watercolors, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t have permitted them to come down in this besmirched condition. I hope, Miles, that you’ll forgive me for causing you embarrassment before your friends.”

“You needn’t worry, my dear,” Strickland said, grinning at her. “I’ve already told my friends that my sister-in-law is an original.”

“No need for embarrassment on our account,” said a familiar voice, and Olivia looked up to see Arthur Tisswold standing nearby. “They are only children, after all.” And he took her stained hand from Perry’s clasp and bowed over it.

“You’re quite right, Arthur,” Strickland said, tousling Perry’s hair.

“You’re quite wrong,” Cousin Hattie contradicted in her scornful, cracked voice. “Children should be expected to behave like little adults when they are brought into adult company. Tilda ought to take them upstairs at once.”

Tilda, who had been waiting on the stairway, bobbed and started down. But Strickland put up a restraining hand. “No need to stand on points, Cousin Hattie. It’s all my fault, you know. I didn’t send word of my arrival. Now that the damage is done, we may as well make everyone known to each other.”

“If you please, Miles,” Olivia suggested quietly, “I think it would be better to wait until later to perform the introductions. The children and I would be more comfortable if we could have some time to change. Let me take them upstairs. I’ll bring them down in time for tea—which can’t be very far off—and you can make the introductions then.”

“Very well, if that is what you wish,” he said and turned to a strikingly beautiful young woman standing at his left. “Shall we go into the drawing room in the meantime? I, for one, would be grateful for a warm fire. Lead the way, if you please, Aunt Eugenia. Come along, Leonora. And let me take your arm too, Lady Gallard. Arthur, old man, will you instruct the footman to serve the port?” Smoothly, with a word for everyone, he guided his guests away from the stairs and toward the drawing room.

Olivia, deeply humiliated by her overenthusiastic behavior on hearing of Strickland’s arrival and by having permitted the children to be seen by a houseful of guests in all their dirt, led the children up the stairs. Ignoring their questions about why they couldn’t talk to Papa and where he could have hidden their presents, she turned them over to Tilda with strict instructions to dress them in their best and to have them ready by tea-time. Then she ran down the hall to her own room. One look in the mirror confirmed her worst fears—she looked a sight! Her hair had fallen over her forehead in shocking disarray, a streak of green paint had spread itself across the bridge of her nose and onto her cheek, and her dress—a shabby old thing to begin with—was speckled with orange and purple spots across the bosom and down the front. Even Tilda in her soiled apron had looked better. What must Strickland’s guests have thought of her? What must he have thought?

She remembered that he had called her an “original.” What had he meant by that? If he intended to imply that she was an eccentric, her appearance had certainly supported him.

But she had no time for further reflection. She whipped off her dress, washed her face in the basin and pulled on a presentable gown. She brushed her hair vigorously, attempting to achieve a semblance of neatness, although she knew that strands of curls would spring free of the smoothly brushed waves as soon as she walked away from the mirror. Then she jumped up from her dressing table and went up to inspect the children. Their appearance, she knew, was more important than her own. The guests would wish to meet Lord Strickland’s children, not his sister-in-law.

In all this time, she’d kept herself from dwelling on the guests. But questions concerning them kept niggling at her mind. Who were they? Why on earth had Strickland invited them? Didn’t he realize how the need to entertain them would steal time away from that which he would ordinarily allot to the children? There was something strange about this state of affairs, and although she had no idea of the answers to her questions, she had a dismaying feeling that there was something foreboding about the presence of the guests. Something was going to happen, and she had a strong premonition that she would not like the happening at all.