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Authors: Fiona Hill
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door for someone to open it), “but now that you have come, I hope I may have the honour of continuing to travel it often.”
Anne skirted the question, muttering only, “You leave us much in your debt”; but Maria, a little shocked at her friend’s grudging manner, answered,
“Indeed, sir, we shall hope to see you again very soon,” and thanked him prettily.
She was still thanking him when the door opened at last and a very thin, very old lady looked out. Her grizzled hair was skinned back off her face and hidden in a scrap of lace at the top of her head. Seeing Mr. Highet, she curtsied, held the door open to admit them, then introduced herself as Miss Charlotte Veal.
“Franklin, run out to the coaches and show them where they must go,” she directed over her shoulder at a young boy who had been hovering in the hall behind. The boy departed on his errand and the ladies identified themselves. Miss Veal stared at them curiously with great, round grey eyes.
“But Mr. Highet, how do you come to be here?” Miss Veal inquired—rather impertinently, Anne thought, for a person she presumed to be the housekeeper.
“Mr. Highet discovered us lost and was kind enough to show us our way,” she interposed coldly, before he could answer. She was feeling almost light-headed with fatigue, and though she mechanically took note of her surroundings (square, wainscoted, tiled hall; plain glass lamps;watercolour landscapes, wooden staircase beyond) all she could really think of was bed and sleep. “It was very good of him, and we are grateful,” she went on, “but my friend and I are both extremely weary, and I hope Mr. Highet will excuse us if I ask you to show us to our rooms. You might summon someone else to help him to any amenity…” Her words faded off as Henry Highet begged her not to trouble about him and Miss Veal simultaneously asked if he mightn’t like to stop the night at Linfield, now he was here.
The housekeeper having extended this invitation, the ladies had perforce to second and urge it upon him; but the gentleman declared repeatedly that he was not the least tired, neither the dark nor the rain distressed him, and he would not stop. Miss Veal, who had evidently a great liking for him, protested vigorously; but in the end he was allowed to depart. Bowing, he vanished into the night. Miss Veal, loudly tsk-tsking (“As if we had sent him away by force,” Anne indignantly commented to Maria the next morning), took a candle and led the ladies up two pairs of oaken stairs to their bed-chambers.
These were across a corridor from one another. Miss Guilfoyle doubted from their size and their furnishings if either was the one her great uncle had inhabited; but she was in no mind to quarrel, so long as there was a bed to climb into. As there was—a large four-postered one—she meekly thanked and dismisssed Miss Veal for the night, asked Lizzie to unbutton her dress and sent her off to bed, wriggled out of the rest of her damp clothes and crawled under the covers.
She slept a long time, and woke sneezing. The spiritual mortifications of the previous night, then the fleshly onesof the day that preceded it, flooded painfully into her memory even before she could fumble for the handkerchief (Mr. Highet’s—she reminded herself to hand it to Lizzie directly she came) on the night-stand. She lay back upon the pillows and shut her eyes. Henry Highet’s stupidly smiling face appeared before her. A new sneeze welled from the back of her throat. “Devil fly away with you,” she muttered, whether to the face or the sneeze was not clear. She sat up, reopened her eyes, erupted explosively, then found a bell-pull over her head, rang it, and sat back.
The rain had stopped (“It would, now,” she thought) and strong sunlight brightly edged the heavy brocaded curtains hung over her windows. The chamber, now she could see it, was large and rather bare, with a plain wooden floor over which a few Turkey carpets had been
Anne skirted the question, muttering only, “You leave us much in your debt”; but Maria, a little shocked at her friend’s grudging manner, answered,
“Indeed, sir, we shall hope to see you again very soon,” and thanked him prettily.
She was still thanking him when the door opened at last and a very thin, very old lady looked out. Her grizzled hair was skinned back off her face and hidden in a scrap of lace at the top of her head. Seeing Mr. Highet, she curtsied, held the door open to admit them, then introduced herself as Miss Charlotte Veal.
“Franklin, run out to the coaches and show them where they must go,” she directed over her shoulder at a young boy who had been hovering in the hall behind. The boy departed on his errand and the ladies identified themselves. Miss Veal stared at them curiously with great, round grey eyes.
“But Mr. Highet, how do you come to be here?” Miss Veal inquired—rather impertinently, Anne thought, for a person she presumed to be the housekeeper.
“Mr. Highet discovered us lost and was kind enough to show us our way,” she interposed coldly, before he could answer. She was feeling almost light-headed with fatigue, and though she mechanically took note of her surroundings (square, wainscoted, tiled hall; plain glass lamps;watercolour landscapes, wooden staircase beyond) all she could really think of was bed and sleep. “It was very good of him, and we are grateful,” she went on, “but my friend and I are both extremely weary, and I hope Mr. Highet will excuse us if I ask you to show us to our rooms. You might summon someone else to help him to any amenity…” Her words faded off as Henry Highet begged her not to trouble about him and Miss Veal simultaneously asked if he mightn’t like to stop the night at Linfield, now he was here.
The housekeeper having extended this invitation, the ladies had perforce to second and urge it upon him; but the gentleman declared repeatedly that he was not the least tired, neither the dark nor the rain distressed him, and he would not stop. Miss Veal, who had evidently a great liking for him, protested vigorously; but in the end he was allowed to depart. Bowing, he vanished into the night. Miss Veal, loudly tsk-tsking (“As if we had sent him away by force,” Anne indignantly commented to Maria the next morning), took a candle and led the ladies up two pairs of oaken stairs to their bed-chambers.
These were across a corridor from one another. Miss Guilfoyle doubted from their size and their furnishings if either was the one her great uncle had inhabited; but she was in no mind to quarrel, so long as there was a bed to climb into. As there was—a large four-postered one—she meekly thanked and dismisssed Miss Veal for the night, asked Lizzie to unbutton her dress and sent her off to bed, wriggled out of the rest of her damp clothes and crawled under the covers.
She slept a long time, and woke sneezing. The spiritual mortifications of the previous night, then the fleshly onesof the day that preceded it, flooded painfully into her memory even before she could fumble for the handkerchief (Mr. Highet’s—she reminded herself to hand it to Lizzie directly she came) on the night-stand. She lay back upon the pillows and shut her eyes. Henry Highet’s stupidly smiling face appeared before her. A new sneeze welled from the back of her throat. “Devil fly away with you,” she muttered, whether to the face or the sneeze was not clear. She sat up, reopened her eyes, erupted explosively, then found a bell-pull over her head, rang it, and sat back.
The rain had stopped (“It would, now,” she thought) and strong sunlight brightly edged the heavy brocaded curtains hung over her windows. The chamber, now she could see it, was large and rather bare, with a plain wooden floor over which a few Turkey carpets had been
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