Grandmother Throckmorton

 

WE BADE HENRY GOODBYE at Charing Cross Station and waited on the platform until his train pulled away. I realized I was going to miss the little beast. Either that or I had a bit of coal dust stuck in my eye.

Then Father clapped his hands together and said, “Now, Theodosia. Let’s pay your grandmother a visit.”

He always tries to make the prospect sound cheerful when both of us know full well it will be dreadful.

Grandmother lives in a very grand house over by St. James Park. It’s the kind of house where all the chairs and sofas are covered with frilly covers and she has hundreds of flowery, breakable things crowding every surface imaginable. The whole house is wretchedly uncomfortable and you can’t touch a single thing.

When we pulled up in front of the house, a footman came down to greet the cab and carry my bags. He lifted the suitcases and led us up the stairs to the front door, where Grandmother’s butler, Beadles, waited for us. Beadles always looked as if he’d just smelled some really nasty fish and was trying to keep his nose as far away from it as possible. Which was really quite horrid because then, if one happened to look up, one could see straight up into his nostrils and practically count his nose hairs.

Wasn’t he worried about going cross-eyed staring down his nose like that? I always did, whenever I tried it.

“Master Throckmorton, Mrs. Throckmorton, I shall tell Madam that you are here.” He ignored me completely, but then, he always does. He stepped away, leaving us all waiting in the hallway as if we were on a business call. Why does Father put up with this, and what makes him think I am going to?

I heard the rustle of stiff silk over lots of rigid petticoats, then Grandmother Throckmorton was upon us. “Hello, Alistair.” She greeted him first, offering up her old, wrinkly cheek for him to kiss.

“Hello, Mother. How are you?” Father asked after he’d given her a quick peck.

She sniffed. “As well as can be expected.” She is very clever, that woman. She said it as if it were somehow Father’s fault. I don’t know how she does it, but it would be a worthwhile skill to learn.

“Henrietta.” She nodded at Mother, but did not offer her a kiss. Lucky Mum, I thought. Then she directed that steely gaze and pinched mouth at me. “And what have we here? Ah, yes. Theodosia. My granddaughter.” She sniffed again.

“Are you catching a cold, Grandmother?” I asked.

She drew back as if I had asked what color her garters were, then lifted her monocle from the chain at her neck and peered down at me. She was no doubt trying to see if I was being impudent, but I have spent many hours practicing my most innocent look.

“Hm,” she said. “It is well and good that I shall be able to mold you for the next several weeks.” Her fierce glare let me know I was in for a miserable time of it. Except, I wasn’t. That uplifting secret lay in my heart like the most wonderful of gifts. But I pretended that she had won and looked demurely at the ground.

“Well,” Father said, shuffling his feet like a schoolboy. “We really must be going. We’ve tons of packing to do and last-minute details to see to.”

The coward!

Mother and Father gave me a quick kiss, then escaped out the front door. Grandmother Throckmorton and I were left standing in the hallway, staring at each other. I could hear Father whistling—whistling, I tell you—on his way down the front stairs.

 

I wasn’t able to escape Grandmother Throckmorton until well after teatime. No sooner had Father and Mother left than she started in on me. She forced me over to the piano, wanting to hear how my scales were coming along. She quickly learned that they weren’t. After wincing her way through my recital, she decided I needed music lessons every day while my parents were gone.

Shortly after that, a seamstress showed up and measured me every which way while Grandmother Throckmorton chose several new lacy, frilly frocks she wanted made up for me. Doesn’t she realize how much lace itches?

She prattled on about dancing lessons and comportment (I already know how to carry myself, thank you very much!) and—horrors—the painstaking process of finding a new pudding-faced governess!

Then we had to take tea in her stuffy old drawing room, and she made me pour. And of course I didn’t just pour, I spilled, too. How could I not when she sat there staring, waiting for me to mess up?

It wasn’t my fault. It was those fancy chairs of hers. They are so stiff and slippery and my feet don’t reach the ground. It’s like trying to pour tea while perched on the end of a slide.

Anyway, because of my poor showing at tea, Grandmother decided I needed to take my dinner in my room until I was able to handle the tea to her satisfaction. What a relief.

Only twenty-two more hours till I can make my escape. Since I’ll be asleep for many of them, I think I can make it.