Biscuits, ham, scrambled eggs, coffee. Cocoa and a boiled egg for Mrs. Craxton. Then Sylva punches down the dough that she left to rise overnight, smears it with the heel of her left hand, and sets to work pressing, folding, and turning until the sponge loses its bubbles and creases. Caked with flour paste, her large fingers look as though they belong to a potter, or to an exhumed corpse. But it’s bad luck to think of death when you have life growing inside you, she reminds herself. No visible change yet other than the sickness, which seems to be on the wane. The child will be a June baby, a little girl, she hopes, to even out the balance.
By this time next year little Gracie will be toddling about on her strong legs, poking and pinching the new baby at every opportunity. Imagine—another winter, another child to feed. Sylva and Peter have added two dollars to their savings every month for as long as they’ve been married, and starting in the fall they’ll be sending their twin boys off to school in Buffalo. And though Sylva can’t help but wish they’d saved more, she doesn’t waste her time worrying about possible disasters. There are too many uncertain factors to worry. Come what may has always been Sylva’s pious attitude.
The dough tears slightly as she presses it flat. One more half turn, and she pats it into a neat ball, divides it into quarters, and shapes each piece into a loaf. Nora has been spooning gruel into Gracie’s mouth, and just as Sylva finishes with the dough the child erupts with a hefty belch, and then, delighted with herself, lets it out noisily from the other end. Nora and Sylva burst out laughing, and Gracie chimes in, proud to be the center of attention.
“What’s so funny?”
Sylva turns around to see her husband standing just inside the kitchen. He sets a basket of fresh eggs upon the counter; a clod of snow slides along his boot to the floor. For some reason Sylva finds her adorable man about as silly as a baby’s fart, and she nearly collapses, overcome by her private amusement. She has to squeeze her thighs together to hold in her water because after three children her bladder isn’t entirely dependable—and this little trick makes her laugh even harder. She can hardly stand it. A baby’s fart, that’s all … she can’t catch her breath to explain. But her adorable man is losing patience, and he reminds her of her responsibility, warns her half seriously that the little one inside will be born with “loose screws,” as he puts it, if she’s not careful. So Sylva finally manages to collect herself, dabs her eyes, and tells Peter to get on out. “There’s nothing for you to mind in this room,” she says. She meets her husband’s irritation with a smirk. He’s mad because Sylva and Nora have excluded him from their laughter. He’s mad because you put two females together and a man doesn’t stand a chance. Sylva orders him from the kitchen, tells him, “Scat now,” like he were some dirty cur scrounging for slops. And he obliges, as Sylva knows he will. In this room, her authority is total.
“Oh, you’re gonna catch it later, Aunty,” Nora says after he’s gone, wickedness in her glance. Sylva’s niece is used to a different kind of family where men beat their women for amusement, and if the same happened here she’d probably feel more at home. Seems she’s learned nothing from Sylva except how to dice turnips and pluck chickens. She hasn’t bothered to notice that her uncle Pete is different from his brother, Nora’s daddy, that Peter wouldn’t think of using Sylva as a punching dummy. It’s not so much that Sylva won’t allow it, but that Peter’s anger doesn’t slide down to his fists. He’s a brainy man—in a better world he’d be a lawyer or a doctor—and his anger stays up in his head, sloshes around and usually settles into a reasonable response. Between here and the barn, Peter will be thinking hard, and he’ll tell himself until he believes it again that between meals a kitchen is no place for a man.
“Ain’t gonna catch nothing,” Sylva retorts in the language that Nora will understand. She sets Nora to work trying out the lard at the stove while she nurses her baby. Gracie sucks greedily, noisily, tires herself, and soon drifts into the drowsy peace that precedes sleep. The baby’s eyes are still open when Sylva lays her in the bassinet, but she doesn’t protest. With a finger to her lips, Sylva signals to Nora to keep hushed.
Through the next hour they work without conversation. Grease spits and sizzles in Nora’s frying pan; the water comes to a boil in the huge copper pot, and the surface flattens for a few minutes when Sylva throws in the sausage. Every day Gracie falls asleep to the sounds and smells of her mother’s cooking. All Sylva’s children have been kitchen ratties; all have been what people call easy babies, never troubled by colic, born with fine plump cheeks and dimpled thighs. She stirs the water as it starts to boil again. Foam snakes between the bubbles and against the edge of the pot, and as Sylva stares at it she pictures a moment during Gracie’s birth when she was resting between contractions, watching sleepily as the new midwife from Millworth rolled a rag into a tight cord. Now what’s she gonna do with that? Sylva had wondered. She’d found out soon enough—the next time she tried to let out a scream, the midwife put that rag-roll between her lips and yanked both ends tight, and all that came out of Sylva’s mouth was a tiny scratching noise, like a lame dog coming up a gravel path.
Here’s a nicer thought: Peter’s fingers sliding up her thighs and cajoling her open, his member following, pushing halfway into her, drawing back, then pushing in again with all his strength so she feels his love in the center of her body. They’ve been married twelve years, and she’s no less amazed at her good fortune than she was the day Peter first came to the Craxtons’ backdoor in Rochester to deliver the week’s groceries. He’d sat an hour drinking Sylva’s thick-as-mud coffee—nearly lost his job for it—and kissed her on the lips when he left. She was nineteen then. Both her parents had passed on, and her older brothers and sisters were already scattered from Detroit to Syracuse. She’d stayed with the Craxtons simply because she enjoyed the work—like her own children, she’d grown up with the smell of fried onions in her hair, garlic shreds under her fingernails, her clothes spotted like a butcher’s apron with the bloody juice of raw beef. She’d chewed on pork rinds when she was teething; she’d played with rolling pins, butter churns, potato mashers, strainers, whisks, and pie-crust jaggers. She took to kitchen work without any prodding from her mama, who had white-collar hopes for her boys and good-marriage hopes for her daughters. By the time Peter came around, Sylva’s mother had been dead three years and couldn’t disapprove.
So now Sylva lives her mama’s life over again, without regrets. Baking bread, mincing boiled meat, chopping pig livers, rolling out pastry, making apple cakes and oatmeal cookies—what other job has such quick and palpable results? But the most important reward of this work is that no child of hers will ever want for nourishment. This in itself fills her with pride, since in the part of her mind that harbors all anxieties, her greatest worry is of hunger. Why this worry predominates she can’t say for certain. She’s never known hunger—neither had her mama. Her father died from fever when she was six, and her mother found it too difficult to conjure him in talk, so his story has been lost. Could be that he’d suffered unspeakable hardship during his early years in New York City, and Sylva had read it in his eyes when she was a little girl. Could be, on the other hand, that the worry comes from nowhere.
That’s how far her thoughts have drifted by the time she removes the four loaves from the oven, overturns them onto a cooling rack, and raps the hard crusts with her knuckles. The hollow tat-tat-tat of each loaf assures her that the bread is perfect—a lovely sound, so resonant and simple. One loaf a day. On Christmas Eve she’ll bake four dozen crescent rolls. She’ll make the cranberry jelly on Wednesday. Mrs. Craxton has given up her recent penchant for plain food, and her menu for Christmas Day includes baked ham, turkey with chestnut stuffing, acorn squash and snap beans and pumpkin pie, along with an apple cake for good luck. All this for a visitor whom Mrs. Craxton despises. Sylva won’t even try to guess her motive—the old woman’s head is full of crannies and cobwebs and locked trunks, a moldering, forbidden place. You can’t help but pity her. And yet you always have to be on guard, for her anger is vast. A slightly overcooked piece of beef or a meal served five minutes late enrages her. Sylva glances at the clock on the wall—in a quarter of an hour she’ll start preparing the midday meal for Mrs. Craxton and Miss Stone, a full meal, though the old woman eats less than ever these days and seems to take more pleasure looking at a plate filled with food than putting that food in her belly.
When Sylva was a child, the Craxton mansion on East Avenue used to be so full of life—the clamor and pounding footsteps of young boys racing each other up the stairs, the music from Mrs. Craxton’s piano, the bellowing voice of Henry Senior as he tried to make himself heard. This was before Sylva’s time, though. First the youngest son died in infancy. The death of the Craxtons’ eldest son eighteen years later silenced the household for good. The three remaining members of the family—the mister and missus and their middle son, Hal Junior—always seemed ghostly to Sylva when she was growing up, apparitions so pale and soundless as they crept around the house that Sylva used to imagine she could pass her hand right through their bodies.
A bustling in the dining room reminds her of the time. Ellen and Peg must be setting the table already. With all the preparations for the Christmas meal, Sylva has forgotten to clean the trout. But before five minutes are up she has the two fish ready to poach. She slides them from the plate into the simmering, seasoned water just as Gracie wakes up with a brief cry. With one hand Sylva stirs butter in a saucepan, with the other hand she tweaks her baby’s toes, feeling secretly proud, for a cook’s expertise is measured not only by her preparations but by her ability to manage the wild dance of a kitchen as the different ingredients are coaxed toward their final end.
Of course her two boys decide to enter the flux just then, when they’re wanted least—they stamp snow from their boots in the pantry and burst into the kitchen demanding something to eat. That’s one thing Sylva makes no rules about—a child of hers fills his belly whenever he wants. And nothing pleases her more than robust hunger.
“Mama, I want ah … ah … ah…” her boy Cap says, caught in his stutter.
“Piece ah sugarbread!” fills in Manny, and Sylva lightly slaps the side of his head. “You let your brother speak for himself,” she says and turns back to the stove, waiting as Cap tries again.
“Mama, please may I have a pee … pee…”
“Peepee!” shouts Manny, overjoyed by his brother’s slip. “Cap wanna peepee!” Sylva threatens him with her whisk, and a few drops fly through the air and land on Manny’s coat.
“Mama!” He is solemn, though obviously glad to have reason to reproach her.
“A piece ah sugabread!” yells Cap.
“Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma,” chatters Gracie, smacking her lips.
“Sylva!” Peg peeks her head around the swinging door and retreats when Sylva tells her, “Another minute.”
Nora scoops up Gracie, who has begun to fuss. Sylva arranges the trout and potato salad on a platter, and the two boys stand aside and watch with mild interest. Amazingly, the meal is ready to be served as soon as Mrs. Craxton has spread her napkin across her lap, and for the next few minutes Peg and Ellen take turns transferring the food and drink to Mrs. Craxton, who for the third time this week dines alone while her guest enjoys another tryst out in the woods.
Sylva gives Cap and Manny their pieces of fresh-baked buttered bread sprinkled with sugar to tide them over until she can feed them properly. The dining room remains silent behind the door, and for a minute the kitchen is still, until Gracie suddenly looks toward Sylva with surprise, as though she’d solved some great riddle, and says with calculated precision, “Mama.”
“That’s right, chicken.” Sylva collects her daughter into her arms. “Mama.”
“Mama,” repeats Gracie.
How complete Sylva’s happiness is right then. So she doesn’t expect to feel so sickly when Mrs. Craxton’s trout comes back hardly touched. Nausea rises in her throat as she stares at the plate: a yellow skin has formed over the sauce and is broken in only one place by prong marks of a fork scraped slowly across the middle of the trout, from its spine to its belly.
* * *
The week passes uneventfully, the weather bitter with frequent snow squalls but little accumulation. At breakfast on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Craxton offers to have Red Vic drive Lilian back to Rochester in the truck so she can spend the holiday with her family. Lilian declines. Mrs. Craxton points out that the roads are navigable, but Lilian insists that she’d rather stay put. So they leave it at that—as it was. Mrs. Craxton’s guest will remain until the first of April, to Mrs. Craxton’s obvious vexation.
Lilian hasn’t ordered Ellen Griswood to do anything for her since the day she arrived at the Manikin, and except for the necessary courtesies, Ellen has little contact with the girl. But she knows what kind of contact she would like to have, the bruises she would like to leave with the back of a hairbrush along those slim, silvery legs. It’s an unfamiliar desire—with her own daughter, discipline has meant appeasement. Ellen has known for years that she’s no match for Peg, who waits with obvious impatience for some justification to bolt. So Ellen still hasn’t confronted her about Lilian Stone.
But up in their bedroom, where they’ve come to change into their holiday dresses for the party, Ellen almost brings herself to ask Peg whether she has ever gone hunting with Lore Bennett. Not that she doubts Lore’s word. She simply wants to hear the truth from Peg, along with an explanation. Where is the attraction in slaughter, Peg? But she can’t even bring herself to ask this question.
Peg slips off her house dress—a hand-me-down from Ellen—and steps toward the closet so the door blocks her from her mother’s view. She’s grown modest of late, hides herself as though Ellen were a stranger. While Peg examines the clothes in the closet, Ellen pictures what she can’t see: her daughter’s breasts, full though still without womanly bounce, the flat plane of her abdomen beneath her cotton chemise, the corkscrew ripples of muscles in her long legs. How much does Peg know about men? She’s beyond the reach of her mother’s advice now, incautious because of Ellen’s neglect.
“Such dreadful scraps!” Peg’s voice seems to come from the other side of the room. She stomps away from the closet, picks up the house dress from the floor, and pulls it back over her head.
“Peg, we’re Mrs. Craxton’s guests tonight.”
“Generous bitch!”
“Peg Griswood!”
“I thought this uniform drab at first, I must admit. But you persuaded me that it is quite fashionable, Mother.”
When had her daughter become so glib? And where would it lead? Ellen will have to wait to find out, for Peg decides upon another tack, no less offensive than her insolence, though more calculated. “I’m sorry”—a disingenuous apology. “I’m needed downstairs, aren’t I?”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Peg. Let’s not argue.” Ellen’s present for Peg is an Indian bead necklace, which she bought last June from Red Vic’s sister and has kept hidden beneath her bed all this time. Now she feels ashamed of the gift.
“I’ll find something to wear,” Peg says. “You go on ahead.” She sits on her bed and watches her mother twist the thick braid of her hair into a bun. As Ellen checks her appearance in the small mirror on top of the bureau—fatigue smeared under her eyes but a healthy color in her face—Peg murmurs, “You look lovely.”
“Are you coming?”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Ellen carries away one of their two lamps and steps soundlessly along the backstairs, listening as she descends for some noise from the bedroom. She hears nothing. Instead, she imagines the conversation they didn’t have:
You’ll leave me soon, won’t you? You’ll go away for good.
Yes.
Where? Don’t leave without telling me where you’re going.
You mustn’t worry, Mother. I can take care of myself.
I don’t want you to go.
But I must.
Why?
It disturbs Ellen to realize that she has imagined herself and her daughter almost as lovers breaking off their affair. But her discomposure passes when she approaches Mrs. Craxton’s bedroom door. She gives her own identifying knock, four short taps that mean, It is the housekeeper. May I enter?
“You may,” calls Mrs. Craxton from within.
* * *
The candelabra in the living room have been burning for over an hour and the waxy, cathedral smell mingles with the scent of the stubby Scotch pine in the corner. Ellen tucks the velvet partiere in its bracket and pushes Mrs. Craxton through the doorway. The other servants have already gathered, and they greet their mistress as nurses in a hospital ward might greet a new patient, with quick assessing glances and nods, and then they turn back to each other, sipping eggnog from crystal glasses, snatching a piece of sausage from Nora’s tray as she glides past.
Every year, for a few hours on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Craxton suspends the household law. From Billie to Red Vic to Ellen Griswood, the hierarchy of rank is dissolved, and Mrs. Craxton treats the staff as family, giving each of them, including the children, the same gift: a box of dinner mints imported from France. They sing carols and eat chowder made with canned oysters. Sometimes, if the mood is right, they dance.
Yet the party is as contrived as a pageant, a splendid display in Mrs. Craxton’s eyes, a specious farce to the servants. It might as well be Halloween, with everyone in costume celebrating death. Cufflinks, suspenders, striped ties, lace, and silk ribbons belie the truth: that the combined savings of all eight servants would not equal a decent fraction of Mrs. Craxton’s income and securities. Questionable securities, to be sure. The Manikin itself certainly isn’t worth half of what it cost to build. And Mrs. Craxton’s capital is being depleted faster than ever by the expenses of staff and upkeep. But the employees are dependent upon the Craxton fortune for their livelihood, and they never resent Mrs. Craxton more than on Christmas Eve, when she insists on pretending that she has no power over them.
Only Sylva declines to play along, by necessity, since she’s busy preparing the food. The others fold into pairs or trios, occasionally glancing up from conversations to gaze with mild appreciation at the collection of trophies—the snarling martin, the twig-legged dik-dik, the brown bats clinging to a cherry-wood stalactite, jaunty, bright-feathered birds. Sylva’s boys run in circles until Peter catches them each by the waistband of their trousers and growls a warning in their ear, and from then on they post themselves at either side of Junket, whom they idolize for his reputation as the world’s best marksman. The sausages and smoked fish help to redeem the festivities, and Nora can’t fill her tray fast enough. Boggio saunters into the room, tightens his string tie, and claps his hands to summon service. Red Vic stokes the fire, building it into a powerful blaze. Ellen winds the gramophone and with a rattling hiss the needle slides into its groove and an orchestral version of “Silent Night” fills the room. And from her wheelchair Mrs. Craxton looks on with the awkward smile of an old matriarch trying to appear proud of her brood but fooling no one.
Then Lilian breezes in. The group falls silent, the candle flames tremble as she passes, and Mrs. Craxton’s smile shrinks into a grimace. But it isn’t Lilian in her scarlet, ankle-length tulle gown who alters the mood of the room. It is Peg Griswood. Ellen’s Peg. She trails Lilian across the room with her eyes lowered, her cheeks tinged pink with rouge, the fish-scale brocade of her knee-length dress—Lilian’s dress on Peg—shining like the tinsel on the Christmas tree, her legs in net stockings, her bare arms draped with a lace shawl. She might as well have walked into the room totally naked, so overwhelming is her effect. She’s a reluctant spectacle and hesitates as they approach Mrs. Craxton. But Lilian takes her by the arm and says, “Isn’t she beautiful?”
She gestures to both of them, so the pronoun of her question could refer to Peg, or with obsequious malice, to Mary Craxton herself. Neither replies. If Mrs. Craxton is shocked by Peg Griswood’s transformation she doesn’t let on—rather, she seizes Peg by the wrist and directs her to sit on the sofa to her right. Lilian takes her place on the sofa beside Peg, effectively sealing off their trio. And with the center of attention withdrawn, the servants return to their own circle, from time to time casting glances in Peg’s direction and rolling their eyes as though to say, Shame on her.
Only Ellen continues to stare, compelled more by curiosity than by outrage. You don’t know your daughter … The vividness of the memory startles her. Lore’s voice. His hand resting on hers. She lifts her eyes from her daughter, searches the room and finds Lore standing by the fire, a distracted expression on his face as he listens to Sid’s monologue.
In fact, Lore makes no effort to listen; whatever he is thinking, Ellen can see that it has nothing to do with Sid’s loud joke. Lore is gazing toward the kitchen, where Junket has just gone, along with Sylva’s boys. Junket and Peg. How natural that match would be. But one glance at Peg, Lilian Stone’s devoted handmaiden, and anyone can see that such a perfect match will never occur.
“So the old feller picks himself up and shouts, ‘Thanks for nothing, God.’” Sid throws his head back and gives such a shrill “Haw” that for a moment all conversation in the room stops. Then Peter raises his voice to reply to Red Vic. They’re on to politics, arguing about Coolidge—“Nothing but an empty barrel, and he fooled the country,” Peter insists. Red Vic reminds him of the choices in ’24. “Which Santa Claus would you have put in office, McAdoo or Smith?” he taunts. And right then Sylva bangs a spoon against the silver tureen and calls, “Come and get it.”
The servants fill their bowls. Lilian carries two bowls to Mrs. Craxton and Peg and then serves herself. Mrs. Craxton languidly stirs the chowder and then spoons a slippery oyster into her mouth. “I taste the tin,” she says in annoyance. “Oysters should be eaten fresh or not at all.” She sets her bowl aside.
“Delicious,” Lilian chirps, her pleasure clearly a touch vengeful, but Mrs. Craxton pays no attention. She forgets the pretense of equality and orders Peg to bring her two decks of cards. Peg obliges so quickly that Ellen wonders whether the girl is grateful for the chance to leave the room. Peg probably hadn’t anticipated the bated hostility her “dressing up” would arouse among the others. But she knows them well enough to read their reaction in their faces.
“When I was a girl, cards were forbidden,” Mrs. Craxton says to no one in particular after Peg has returned with the decks. “But my father taught me to play whist and piquet on the sly. We used to gamble with real pennies, and if he won, which he usually did, he would sweep the coins right into the pocket of his waistcoat. That was that. I lost a fortune to him over the years.”
“What shall we play?” Lilian slouches back in her armchair in an explicit display of boredom.
“I’ll teach you a game of patience, if you’re interested.”
“Certainly.”
“We’ll play casket patience. One of my favorites. If you ever find yourself in a hospital or sanitorium, my dears—oh, banish the thought, you’re so full of life yet! But someday you’ll want to know how to amuse yourself alone and to forget your troubles for half an hour. Here, then, is a pleasant little pastime.” She shuffles the two decks together, and though a few cards fly away when she bends them into an arch, an echo of her earlier nimbleness is visible in the brisk way she knocks the pile against the table.
“The casket is formed,” she explains, “by placing two cards at either end, like so. Four along the bottom. And five—one, two, three, four, five—rounded to form the lid. Now we count out thirteen cards—these are the jewels. Be sure to take out any aces from the casket. The ace of spades. We fill the vacancy with a card in hand. Voilà. And place the ace below for the foundation. Now we begin packing down the sides and bottom of the casket. The lid cards are off limits, except when they’re needed to build up the foundation. If you take a lid card, you may replace it with a jewel. The two of spades, for instance. We’re off to a good start. You’ll see that the success of casket patience depends upon the frequent opening of the lid. And remember—a second turn is not allowed.”
“Ace of diamonds,” Lilian announces as Mrs. Craxton overturns it.
“Very good.”
Although like most forms of patience, casket patience involves only one player, by the time Mrs. Craxton has laid a foundation of three aces, everyone in the room has gravitated over and gathered around her, hanging on the suspense that at any other time would annoy them in its simplicity. What will the next card be? And the next and the next, all the way through two decks until the cards have been used up. “The object is to dismantle the casket,” Mrs. Craxton says as she lays down a five of diamonds. It is like watching a woman darn a sock—no, worse than that, since nothing will be gained or improved by the effort. But still the servants feel compelled to witness the game in its entirety.
Sid finds a comfortable place behind Peg’s chair where he can steal an occasional glimpse down her dress. Red Vic stands beside Lore and in a whisper bets him a nickel that the old lady will end in a muddle. Billie and Eva watch with the rapt interest inspired by bootleg gin, which Sid snuck into the eggnog, as he does every year, because he has his own ideas about how to throw a party.
Ellen watches from her usual position slightly behind and to the side of Mrs. Craxton’s chair. As the game progresses, she senses something more at stake than the prospect of winning or losing. Mrs. Craxton has played casket patience a hundred times before, but she has never performed it in front of an audience, as she does now. It is like a pantomime, the story enacted without words. The casket remains intact, and her rubbish piles grow. If she keeps turning up useless cards she’ll forfeit the game, a humiliating loss in front of onlookers, and it will be Ellen’s job to console her. She could save face by cutting the demonstration short. But she keeps on with an eagerness that seems more and more inexplicable to Ellen; it’s as though Mrs. Craxton doesn’t care whether she wins or loses, as though her defeat will be meaningless, perhaps even deliberate.
Ellen seeks her daughter’s face. Despite the makeup, she finds the remnants of Peg’s childhood in the rounded chin, the delicate flare of her nostrils as she exhales, the expressive, wondering eyes. There are two ways for a woman to age, Ellen thinks: as with herself, the body may become haggard, the skin tough, with the hard elasticity of gutta-percha. Or as in the case of Mrs. Craxton, the body may grow softer, plumper, the skeleton buried beneath fluffy, whipped-cream fat. The backs of her hands are spotted pillows of flesh, without bone or sinew; the sphere of her face looks as malleable as soft butter. Mrs. Craxton has become strangely indifferent to the contest of patience. In the time it takes to overturn the remaining cards, indifference will spread until no part of her remains unaffected. She doesn’t care whether she succeeds or fails. She doesn’t care at all.
The queen of clubs.
The seven of diamonds.
The casket remains intact. A second turn is not allowed. She turns over the final three cards, ending with the ace of clubs. Then she looks up, a vague smile crosses her face, and she murmurs, “Henry.”
At this instant Ellen understands the implications of the game and the high stakes. Mrs. Craxton is greeting her dead husband—the name signals her confusion. Yes, Ellen has been watching a woman go mad—this must account for the game’s overwhelming suspense. Mrs. Craxton began the round with her reason intact and has ended it insane. The wheels of her chair creak as she shifts her weight forward. “How good of you to come,” she says, her eyes vacant yet with a sureness of direction, like a blind woman gazing toward a sound, facing her object so insistently that all the servants finally follow her gaze. Their gasps of surprise are nearly synchronized as they recognize Hal Craxton Junior, Mrs. Craxton’s son, who is leaning casually against the mantel, looking completely at home.
“Merry Christmas, Mother.”
“We weren’t expecting you.”
“Didn’t you receive my letter?”
“The post is so unreliable.”
“But please, carry on. I’m going to have my supper and I’d just as soon you left me alone for ten minutes.”
“Of course, Hal, of course. Ellen, fetch a bottle of champagne from the cellar. We’ll be wet tonight, Hal—we must toast your return. But you’re hungry. Go ahead, I won’t disturb you while you eat. I’ll play another game. Come then, girls, don’t stare. He’s just my son, my own flesh and blood. Hal, you remember Lilian Stone, don’t you? Audrey’s youngest child? But go ahead, I won’t bother you anymore. Never mind that you’ve been away for eighteen long months and didn’t bother to send your mother a single letter, not even a card on my seventy-fifth birthday, only an occasional telegram to let me know that you were staying away. Oh, never mind about all that. You need your supper. Nora, tell Sylva that my son has come home. I’ll demonstrate another form of patience while Hal dines. What shall we play? Why don’t I teach you demon patience, a game even more aggravating than the last, and we only need one deck. He’s a clever one, this demon, so beware. When you think success is within your grasp, he’ll bring you to a standstill. But we won’t let our demon get the better of us, will we, girls? We’ll snatch the game back. There you are, Sylva. Please see to it that my son has enough to eat. Later, Hal, you can tell me all about your travels, and we’ll attend to financial matters—I’d prefer to get this out of the way tonight, if you don’t mind. Now, after shuffling the pack thoroughly, you count out thirteen cards.”