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Authors: Fiona Hill
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scattered. A huge country cupboard stood in one corner, a deal wardrobe in another, and a small vanity table (too small for the seriously vain, she considered) in a third. A blue-and-white porcelain washbasin sat upon this table, with a white ceramic pitcher. The room was scrupulously clean, and when (Lizzie duly arrived, also sneezing) the curtains were opened, sunlight poured into it through three large, diamond-paned casement windows.
“Good morning, Lizzie. I see that you also kept a souvenir of last night?” Anne observed in heavily nasal tones.
“Yes, Miss. I’m afraid so, Miss.”
Exploding again, “You have my deepest commiseration,” Anne told her. “Are you well armed with handkerchiefs? Take some of mine, if not. And please see that this one is laundered and returned to Mr. Highet,” she finished, distastefully holding out the crumpled linensquare. “I think there is a pile of fresh ones in that portmanteau, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Lizzie opened the portmanteau, located the needed reinforcements, and supplied Miss Guilfoyle with them. “I’ve fetched your lap-desk up, ma’am,” she said, disappearing into the corridor momentarily, then returning with the desk. She set it on the bed and stood back.
Since it was Miss Guilfoyle’s habit to write three or four letters each morning from her bed, and since each morning Lizzie fetched her lap-desk to her for that purpose, it seemed no strange thing that the desk should be brought to her this morning. Yet Anne lay contemplating it as if it had been a meteor dropped from the sky. “Thank you, Lizzie, you may go. Keep warm to-day. Ask for my chocolate, if you please,” she added rather dreamily, her eyes still fixed and vacant.
Lizzie curtsied—she had a long-legged, loping gait and a curiously jaunty curtsy—and departed. Her mistress’ gaze did not shift. She lay many moments in silence, then said at last, “Do you feel as foolish as you look, I wonder?”
It was true the desk looked foolish. It was an ebony desk elaborately inlaid with brass scrollwork. Its clasps imitated the talons of a hawk, its hinges two fantastical birds in profile. Inside, the polished ebony writing surface was bordered with a vine of nacre, and a jade oak cluster embellished each corner. The compartments below, where pens and paper and ink were kept, were lined in green velvet embroidered with silken birds and flowers. It had been made to Miss Guilfoyle’s specifications in happier days. In this plain, light-swept, cheerful room, it lookedas ridiculous as a bishop in a donkey cart—or, thought Anne bitterly, a bluestocking at a farm.
There was a tap on the door. Maria, wearing a grey day dress, came in. Her eyes and nose were red, and in the draught made by the opening and closing of the door, both ladies sneezed mightily.
“You too?” was Anne’s greeting.
Mrs. Insel took the ladder-backed chair from the vanity table and sat down. “Yes. Minna also, and Mrs. Dolphim, from what I hear.”
“A flush,” said Anne, who despised cards but knew the rudiments of play. She blew her nose; at the same moment came a knock on the door. A young girl with ginger hair walked in, bearing a tray.
“Your chocolate, Miss. My name is Susannah. It’s a lovely day out. I feel quite cheerful after all that rain.”
“No one asked your name or your opinions,” thought Anne automatically, waving her to set the tray on the bed, but saying nothing. She gave a cool nod of dismissal. “What did my great uncle do, do you suppose, to encourage the servants to confide in one so?” she demanded of Maria as the door closed. “We have not been here fourteen hours, and already I know more of Miss Veal’s ideas, and Miss Susannah’s biography, than I feel the slightest need to know. Have you been out into the house at all?” she went on before the other could answer. “Is it this all over? Deal tables and chintz counterpanes and sunshine?”
Maria, understanding at once, gave a
“Good morning, Lizzie. I see that you also kept a souvenir of last night?” Anne observed in heavily nasal tones.
“Yes, Miss. I’m afraid so, Miss.”
Exploding again, “You have my deepest commiseration,” Anne told her. “Are you well armed with handkerchiefs? Take some of mine, if not. And please see that this one is laundered and returned to Mr. Highet,” she finished, distastefully holding out the crumpled linensquare. “I think there is a pile of fresh ones in that portmanteau, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Lizzie opened the portmanteau, located the needed reinforcements, and supplied Miss Guilfoyle with them. “I’ve fetched your lap-desk up, ma’am,” she said, disappearing into the corridor momentarily, then returning with the desk. She set it on the bed and stood back.
Since it was Miss Guilfoyle’s habit to write three or four letters each morning from her bed, and since each morning Lizzie fetched her lap-desk to her for that purpose, it seemed no strange thing that the desk should be brought to her this morning. Yet Anne lay contemplating it as if it had been a meteor dropped from the sky. “Thank you, Lizzie, you may go. Keep warm to-day. Ask for my chocolate, if you please,” she added rather dreamily, her eyes still fixed and vacant.
Lizzie curtsied—she had a long-legged, loping gait and a curiously jaunty curtsy—and departed. Her mistress’ gaze did not shift. She lay many moments in silence, then said at last, “Do you feel as foolish as you look, I wonder?”
It was true the desk looked foolish. It was an ebony desk elaborately inlaid with brass scrollwork. Its clasps imitated the talons of a hawk, its hinges two fantastical birds in profile. Inside, the polished ebony writing surface was bordered with a vine of nacre, and a jade oak cluster embellished each corner. The compartments below, where pens and paper and ink were kept, were lined in green velvet embroidered with silken birds and flowers. It had been made to Miss Guilfoyle’s specifications in happier days. In this plain, light-swept, cheerful room, it lookedas ridiculous as a bishop in a donkey cart—or, thought Anne bitterly, a bluestocking at a farm.
There was a tap on the door. Maria, wearing a grey day dress, came in. Her eyes and nose were red, and in the draught made by the opening and closing of the door, both ladies sneezed mightily.
“You too?” was Anne’s greeting.
Mrs. Insel took the ladder-backed chair from the vanity table and sat down. “Yes. Minna also, and Mrs. Dolphim, from what I hear.”
“A flush,” said Anne, who despised cards but knew the rudiments of play. She blew her nose; at the same moment came a knock on the door. A young girl with ginger hair walked in, bearing a tray.
“Your chocolate, Miss. My name is Susannah. It’s a lovely day out. I feel quite cheerful after all that rain.”
“No one asked your name or your opinions,” thought Anne automatically, waving her to set the tray on the bed, but saying nothing. She gave a cool nod of dismissal. “What did my great uncle do, do you suppose, to encourage the servants to confide in one so?” she demanded of Maria as the door closed. “We have not been here fourteen hours, and already I know more of Miss Veal’s ideas, and Miss Susannah’s biography, than I feel the slightest need to know. Have you been out into the house at all?” she went on before the other could answer. “Is it this all over? Deal tables and chintz counterpanes and sunshine?”
Maria, understanding at once, gave a
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