Read Online The Tale of Holly How by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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middle of the three linked cottages that were, as a group, called Sunnyside.
“Margaret, what are you doing?” asked Annie, rolling up her sleeves as she came into the kitchen. She had just finished teaching a piano lesson—little Angus Williams—and Margaret was distinctly grateful. Angus could be counted on to do his part in the school chorus, but he was nothing but thumbs, and heavy thumbs at that, when it came to the piano. No sense of rhythm, either.
“What am I doing? Why, I’m peeling potatoes, of course.” Margaret looked down and broke into helpless laughter. She had pared a new potato until it wasn’t much bigger than a marble. “I suppose I was thinking,” she said apologetically.
“Don’t think with a knife in your hand, dear,” Annie remarked, brushing the brown hair out of her eyes and tying on her plain cotton apron. She chuckled. “It’s downright dangerous.”
Margaret glanced at her sister, glad to see a return of her light, teasing smile. Annie hadn’t been dangerously ill, thank heaven, but she was not robust, and even a slight cold was enough to provoke a bout of pneumonia. She’d been sick since April and had to give up her job at the post office in Far Sawrey—only a half-mile, but much too far for her to walk, especially during the spring rainy season. Doing without her salary had been difficult, but things were easing up now that she was able to teach piano again, which brought in enough so that they could pay Dr. Butters for his visits and the medication. And the new position, when it came through, would bring a substantial salary increase. Annie wouldn’t have to go back to the post office. And she could take only the serious piano students, which would please her.
With a little shiver, Margaret pushed the thought away. She was not one to tempt fate by counting too heavily on something that had not yet happened, even when it seemed a virtual surety—although now that Miss Crabbe had finally written the letter, it did appear that things were moving forward at last.
Annie opened the oven and took out the iron pot in which they always baked their Monday tatie-pot supper. She took off the lid, allowing a savory cloud of steam to rise, gathered up Margaret’s peeled and quartered potatoes, and plunked them into the pot on top of the mutton, black pudding, carrots, and onions.
“Let’s give this another forty minutes,” she said, replacing the lid and sliding the pot back into the oven. She straightened, smiling. “I won’t offer you a penny for your thoughts, because I can guess them. I saw Miss Crabbe’s letter to the trustees on your desk.”
Margaret scraped the potato parings into the pail that they filled daily for their neighbor’s pig, who lived in a small pigsty at the back of the garden. “The letter was a good one, I thought, and it was nice of her to send me a copy. What did you think?”
“I think she could have written sooner,” Annie remarked sternly. “And she certainly didn’t give you anything more than your due—and that grudgingly, the old witch.” She poked up the fire in the kitchen range. The Sunnyside cottages, where the Nash sisters had lived for nearly a decade, were constructed of stone and shaded by large beech trees; they were always so cool that the fire was welcome, even on a warm July evening.
Margaret had to agree with her sister, although she wouldn’t have gone quite so far as “old witch.” Miss Crabbe’s recommendation that she be promoted to head teacher (sent to the school trustees, with a copy to her) had come very late, and it had not been written with anything like the enthusiasm for which Margaret had hoped. But she knew that the trustees would take into account both Miss Crabbe’s reputation for being parsimonious with her praise, and the unhappy circumstances that had shadowed her departure. Miss Crabbe would have come back to teach after her broken leg had mended if Captain Woodcock and Vicar Sackett had not
“Margaret, what are you doing?” asked Annie, rolling up her sleeves as she came into the kitchen. She had just finished teaching a piano lesson—little Angus Williams—and Margaret was distinctly grateful. Angus could be counted on to do his part in the school chorus, but he was nothing but thumbs, and heavy thumbs at that, when it came to the piano. No sense of rhythm, either.
“What am I doing? Why, I’m peeling potatoes, of course.” Margaret looked down and broke into helpless laughter. She had pared a new potato until it wasn’t much bigger than a marble. “I suppose I was thinking,” she said apologetically.
“Don’t think with a knife in your hand, dear,” Annie remarked, brushing the brown hair out of her eyes and tying on her plain cotton apron. She chuckled. “It’s downright dangerous.”
Margaret glanced at her sister, glad to see a return of her light, teasing smile. Annie hadn’t been dangerously ill, thank heaven, but she was not robust, and even a slight cold was enough to provoke a bout of pneumonia. She’d been sick since April and had to give up her job at the post office in Far Sawrey—only a half-mile, but much too far for her to walk, especially during the spring rainy season. Doing without her salary had been difficult, but things were easing up now that she was able to teach piano again, which brought in enough so that they could pay Dr. Butters for his visits and the medication. And the new position, when it came through, would bring a substantial salary increase. Annie wouldn’t have to go back to the post office. And she could take only the serious piano students, which would please her.
With a little shiver, Margaret pushed the thought away. She was not one to tempt fate by counting too heavily on something that had not yet happened, even when it seemed a virtual surety—although now that Miss Crabbe had finally written the letter, it did appear that things were moving forward at last.
Annie opened the oven and took out the iron pot in which they always baked their Monday tatie-pot supper. She took off the lid, allowing a savory cloud of steam to rise, gathered up Margaret’s peeled and quartered potatoes, and plunked them into the pot on top of the mutton, black pudding, carrots, and onions.
“Let’s give this another forty minutes,” she said, replacing the lid and sliding the pot back into the oven. She straightened, smiling. “I won’t offer you a penny for your thoughts, because I can guess them. I saw Miss Crabbe’s letter to the trustees on your desk.”
Margaret scraped the potato parings into the pail that they filled daily for their neighbor’s pig, who lived in a small pigsty at the back of the garden. “The letter was a good one, I thought, and it was nice of her to send me a copy. What did you think?”
“I think she could have written sooner,” Annie remarked sternly. “And she certainly didn’t give you anything more than your due—and that grudgingly, the old witch.” She poked up the fire in the kitchen range. The Sunnyside cottages, where the Nash sisters had lived for nearly a decade, were constructed of stone and shaded by large beech trees; they were always so cool that the fire was welcome, even on a warm July evening.
Margaret had to agree with her sister, although she wouldn’t have gone quite so far as “old witch.” Miss Crabbe’s recommendation that she be promoted to head teacher (sent to the school trustees, with a copy to her) had come very late, and it had not been written with anything like the enthusiasm for which Margaret had hoped. But she knew that the trustees would take into account both Miss Crabbe’s reputation for being parsimonious with her praise, and the unhappy circumstances that had shadowed her departure. Miss Crabbe would have come back to teach after her broken leg had mended if Captain Woodcock and Vicar Sackett had not
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