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Authors: Joan Smith
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country must cause the most lax judge to open up his eyes.”
“Are you daring to question my character?” he demanded, jumping to his feet and bumping his head on a low-hanging pot of ivy.
“I am stating a well-known fact. If it impugns your character, you must not place the blame on me. You did not hesitate to call me a crotchety, insular, ignorant spinster. We shall see which impediment the judge considers more serious: my lack of knowing Latin and Greek, or your lack of morals.”
“You are extremely foolish to come to cuffs with me, Miss Harris. If you are serious about wanting custody of the children, you had better hire yourself the best lawyer you can afford, and be prepared to curtail your expenditures accordingly. They don’t come cheap.”
One says the stupidest things in the heat of argument. I chanced to think of Mr. Everett, who must surely have as much money as Menrod, and was much more eager to spend it. Though I would not take a penny from him, I used his name in vain, or implied it at least. “You are not the only one wallowing in gold,” I said airily. “I have wealthy friends who would be happy to help with the finances.”
“A lady who accepts gifts of money from a man is hardly in a position to dredge up the word mistress as an insult against others,” he pointed out.
“Unless the man has offered her marriage,” I shot back unwisely.
“If you think for one minute I would let that commoner be father to Peter’s children, you are insane,” he said. “Good day.” He stepped out the door.
It had been an upsetting interview. With my nerves in tatters, I did not notice at first which door he was walking through. Not till he was actually into the hall did I recall the surprise awaiting him there. I heard an anguished howl, not unlike the squeal emitted by a stuck pig. It was Menrod, catching his first glimpse of the brass railing, the white paint, the gold rosettes.
“What have you done? What is this— abhorrence?” he demanded. His face looked like a death mask, save that the eyes were wide open.
The fire screen cut down on the light coming from the front of the house. He pushed it aside, to stand staring in horror at the work, while I swiftly considered whether to tell him it was a mistake that would be undone at once, or to claim purposeful authorship of the foul deed. My own mood was angry enough to consider the latter, but in the end I told the truth.
“There was a little mistake,” I said mildly.
“A little mistake? A little mistake? No, madam, there was a gross crime perpetrated against architecture, art, and history. I’ll sue him, I know who is responsible for this heinous— thing. Not even you, with all your lack of taste, your yellow tables and chairs and your potted weeds, could have devised anything so ugly. This is the work of Everett. Don’t trouble to deny it. I have seen Oakdene. I recognize his hand in this. How dare you despoil this gem of a cottage?”
Without another word , he stalked out the door, to encounter two men carrying in a bolt of red carpet for the stairs. He knocked it out of their hands, making some loud but indistinguishable sound of threat. Whatever he said, it had the effect of getting the red carpet back onto the cart that stood at the door.
Mama, who has the magical ability to disappear at times of turmoil, came tripping down the stairs. “Was that Menrod?” she asked fearfully.
“It certainly was.”
“Did he see the stairs?”
“Yes, he saw them.”
“I suppose he doesn’t care for them.”
“He spoke of suing Mr. Everett.”
----
Chapter 6
Menrod did not carry out his threat to sue. Instead he went storming down to Oakdene to ring a peal over Mr. Everett. That same day, the carpenters returned to remove the abhorrence. Mama, with tears in her eyes, asked if she might have the bannister and railings and gilt-trimmed panels for a souvenir, as they were bought and paid for (but not by us).
“They will be here,
“Are you daring to question my character?” he demanded, jumping to his feet and bumping his head on a low-hanging pot of ivy.
“I am stating a well-known fact. If it impugns your character, you must not place the blame on me. You did not hesitate to call me a crotchety, insular, ignorant spinster. We shall see which impediment the judge considers more serious: my lack of knowing Latin and Greek, or your lack of morals.”
“You are extremely foolish to come to cuffs with me, Miss Harris. If you are serious about wanting custody of the children, you had better hire yourself the best lawyer you can afford, and be prepared to curtail your expenditures accordingly. They don’t come cheap.”
One says the stupidest things in the heat of argument. I chanced to think of Mr. Everett, who must surely have as much money as Menrod, and was much more eager to spend it. Though I would not take a penny from him, I used his name in vain, or implied it at least. “You are not the only one wallowing in gold,” I said airily. “I have wealthy friends who would be happy to help with the finances.”
“A lady who accepts gifts of money from a man is hardly in a position to dredge up the word mistress as an insult against others,” he pointed out.
“Unless the man has offered her marriage,” I shot back unwisely.
“If you think for one minute I would let that commoner be father to Peter’s children, you are insane,” he said. “Good day.” He stepped out the door.
It had been an upsetting interview. With my nerves in tatters, I did not notice at first which door he was walking through. Not till he was actually into the hall did I recall the surprise awaiting him there. I heard an anguished howl, not unlike the squeal emitted by a stuck pig. It was Menrod, catching his first glimpse of the brass railing, the white paint, the gold rosettes.
“What have you done? What is this— abhorrence?” he demanded. His face looked like a death mask, save that the eyes were wide open.
The fire screen cut down on the light coming from the front of the house. He pushed it aside, to stand staring in horror at the work, while I swiftly considered whether to tell him it was a mistake that would be undone at once, or to claim purposeful authorship of the foul deed. My own mood was angry enough to consider the latter, but in the end I told the truth.
“There was a little mistake,” I said mildly.
“A little mistake? A little mistake? No, madam, there was a gross crime perpetrated against architecture, art, and history. I’ll sue him, I know who is responsible for this heinous— thing. Not even you, with all your lack of taste, your yellow tables and chairs and your potted weeds, could have devised anything so ugly. This is the work of Everett. Don’t trouble to deny it. I have seen Oakdene. I recognize his hand in this. How dare you despoil this gem of a cottage?”
Without another word , he stalked out the door, to encounter two men carrying in a bolt of red carpet for the stairs. He knocked it out of their hands, making some loud but indistinguishable sound of threat. Whatever he said, it had the effect of getting the red carpet back onto the cart that stood at the door.
Mama, who has the magical ability to disappear at times of turmoil, came tripping down the stairs. “Was that Menrod?” she asked fearfully.
“It certainly was.”
“Did he see the stairs?”
“Yes, he saw them.”
“I suppose he doesn’t care for them.”
“He spoke of suing Mr. Everett.”
----
Chapter 6
Menrod did not carry out his threat to sue. Instead he went storming down to Oakdene to ring a peal over Mr. Everett. That same day, the carpenters returned to remove the abhorrence. Mama, with tears in her eyes, asked if she might have the bannister and railings and gilt-trimmed panels for a souvenir, as they were bought and paid for (but not by us).
“They will be here,
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