Read Online Rutherford Park by Elizabeth Cooke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Cooke
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stroke and admire and steal from.
He frowned and looked into his lap. This, he thought, was all Helene’s fault. Her wry sense of humor, her idle threats, her little caresses and kisses were a form of prodding and wheedling too. She had spoiled the happiness of Christmas for him, made him feel a dolt in his own house, made him feel like a one-dimensional cardboard representation of himself rather than an actual person. That was where this damned feeling had begun. “You are set in your ways,” she had whispered last night as he had tried to extricate himself. “I shall prize you out of your comfortable life, William, and see how you like it.” All said with her reptilian smile.
He looked up and applauded loudly. He would show himself to be real, a decent host. He got up and made a cheerful speech, and handed out the Christmas gifts: sides of ham, and woolen blankets made at Blessington, and to each family a token to be exchanged for kindling at the farm. He shook hands and was curtsied to and smiled at shyly by the women. The men stuck their chins in the air and took the gifts without deference, because no Yorkshireman took charity. It was understood that the Christmas handouts had been earned. Everyone smiled; more songs were sung; the noise level rose.
William looked across at his daughters clapping and laughing.The dancing would soon start. He would wait while they took two or three turns about the floor, but then they would all retire to the house and allow the village to let down its hair. He smiled at Louisa’s profile in particular; she had the light coloring of the Beckforth line, blond haired and fair skinned.
“Don’t you think I look like Dorothy Gish?” she had asked, pirouetting about this morning and striking poses from the silent films they had seen.
“Dorothy Gish has dark hair,” he’d responded. Of all his children, she was the favorite; she had always been so good-natured, so lighthearted.
She had come up to him and taken his hands. “Why, you
do
know,” she’d said, delighted. “And you pretend you don’t. But you know Dorothy Gish!” She’d laughed. She was laughing now.
Somewhere in the background, he noticed Helene watching Louisa too. He turned away.
“Where is Harry?” he asked Octavia, as they rose to leave at last.
“He had an early breakfast, I’m told,” she replied.
“And went where?”
“I don’t know,” Octavia admitted.
William sighed as he offered his arm to her.
* * *
M rs. Jocelyn was waiting for them when they reached the house. She stood in the great hall, a statue in black with the chatelaine keys of the kitchens and storerooms about her waist. Octavia raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“May I speak with you, ma’am?”
They were taking off their coats. “Is it the dinner?”
Mrs. Jocelyn’s eyes flicked briefly to William. He shrugged and walked away to his study. Mrs. Jocelyn watched him go; Octaviawalked in the opposite direction, to the morning room, where she went to the window and gazed out at the lake. Mrs. Jocelyn came in behind her and closed the door.
“Well, what is it?”
The older woman actually wrung her hands; Octavia had never seen her betray a moment of anxiety. Her housekeeper’s normal attitude was one of rigid, stoical calm. “I am sorry to bother your ladyship with such a thing, but it will be necessary to call the doctor.”
“The doctor? For whom?”
“For one of the maids, ma’am.”
Octavia turned back from the window. “Why? What is wrong? Who is it?”
“It’s Maitland, ma’am. She…” The housekeeper blushed. “I thought it best not to bother his lordship.”
“And why not?”
“The girl is very ill.”
“Good heavens. But surely not enough to call Evans out here on Christmas Day?” And then the image of the girl from the night before came back to her, of Emily Maitland walking through the snow, and vanishing almost as soon as Octavia had noticed her.
“I’m afraid so,
He frowned and looked into his lap. This, he thought, was all Helene’s fault. Her wry sense of humor, her idle threats, her little caresses and kisses were a form of prodding and wheedling too. She had spoiled the happiness of Christmas for him, made him feel a dolt in his own house, made him feel like a one-dimensional cardboard representation of himself rather than an actual person. That was where this damned feeling had begun. “You are set in your ways,” she had whispered last night as he had tried to extricate himself. “I shall prize you out of your comfortable life, William, and see how you like it.” All said with her reptilian smile.
He looked up and applauded loudly. He would show himself to be real, a decent host. He got up and made a cheerful speech, and handed out the Christmas gifts: sides of ham, and woolen blankets made at Blessington, and to each family a token to be exchanged for kindling at the farm. He shook hands and was curtsied to and smiled at shyly by the women. The men stuck their chins in the air and took the gifts without deference, because no Yorkshireman took charity. It was understood that the Christmas handouts had been earned. Everyone smiled; more songs were sung; the noise level rose.
William looked across at his daughters clapping and laughing.The dancing would soon start. He would wait while they took two or three turns about the floor, but then they would all retire to the house and allow the village to let down its hair. He smiled at Louisa’s profile in particular; she had the light coloring of the Beckforth line, blond haired and fair skinned.
“Don’t you think I look like Dorothy Gish?” she had asked, pirouetting about this morning and striking poses from the silent films they had seen.
“Dorothy Gish has dark hair,” he’d responded. Of all his children, she was the favorite; she had always been so good-natured, so lighthearted.
She had come up to him and taken his hands. “Why, you
do
know,” she’d said, delighted. “And you pretend you don’t. But you know Dorothy Gish!” She’d laughed. She was laughing now.
Somewhere in the background, he noticed Helene watching Louisa too. He turned away.
“Where is Harry?” he asked Octavia, as they rose to leave at last.
“He had an early breakfast, I’m told,” she replied.
“And went where?”
“I don’t know,” Octavia admitted.
William sighed as he offered his arm to her.
* * *
M rs. Jocelyn was waiting for them when they reached the house. She stood in the great hall, a statue in black with the chatelaine keys of the kitchens and storerooms about her waist. Octavia raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“May I speak with you, ma’am?”
They were taking off their coats. “Is it the dinner?”
Mrs. Jocelyn’s eyes flicked briefly to William. He shrugged and walked away to his study. Mrs. Jocelyn watched him go; Octaviawalked in the opposite direction, to the morning room, where she went to the window and gazed out at the lake. Mrs. Jocelyn came in behind her and closed the door.
“Well, what is it?”
The older woman actually wrung her hands; Octavia had never seen her betray a moment of anxiety. Her housekeeper’s normal attitude was one of rigid, stoical calm. “I am sorry to bother your ladyship with such a thing, but it will be necessary to call the doctor.”
“The doctor? For whom?”
“For one of the maids, ma’am.”
Octavia turned back from the window. “Why? What is wrong? Who is it?”
“It’s Maitland, ma’am. She…” The housekeeper blushed. “I thought it best not to bother his lordship.”
“And why not?”
“The girl is very ill.”
“Good heavens. But surely not enough to call Evans out here on Christmas Day?” And then the image of the girl from the night before came back to her, of Emily Maitland walking through the snow, and vanishing almost as soon as Octavia had noticed her.
“I’m afraid so,
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