don’t want to see you anywhere near that house from now on, do you hear me, Lottie?” she said, making her way up the stairs after Sarah left. “I really am very cross with you both. Very cross. And I will not have you embarrassing the family in this way again. Goodness only knows what Dr. Holden is going to say when he gets home.”
“So don’t tell him,” said Lottie, emerging from their room, her face straight. “He’s not interested in women’s gossip anyway.”
“Women’s gossip? Is that what you call it?” Susan Holden stood on the stairs, clutching the banister. “You both humiliate me in front of polite society and you think this is just women’s gossip?”
From inside their room she heard Celia mutter something.
“What was that? What did you say?”
Lottie was gazing into their room. After a moment Celia stuck her head around the door.
“I said we’re terribly sorry, Mummy, and of course we’ll stay well away from the disreputable rabble, as Mrs. Chilton so eloquently put it.”
Mrs. Holden gave them both her longest, hardest look. But she swore she could see the faintest of smiles playing around Lottie’s lips. And, realizing she was not about to get any more out of either of them, she mustered up what little dignity she could and walked slowly back downstairs, to where Freddie was building himself a rabbit hutch out of old crates. In the good parlor. To live in.
And now Celia had gone. And Lottie, although she had been careful to do all her chores and had been relentlessly polite and helped with Sylvia’s homework, had for weeks been mooning around like a sick puppy when she thought no one was looking. It was all rather wearing. And somehow Susan Holden felt rather less comfortable about Lottie’s presence in the house than she once had. Not that she would have admitted it to anyone. Not after all the hard work she had been seen to put into the girl’s upbringing. It was just that when it had been the two of them together and she had fed them together, bought their clothes together, scolded them together . . . it had been somehow easier to consider Lottie just part of the family. Now, with Celia gone, she felt unable to deal with Lottie in quite the same way. If Susan admitted it to herself, she felt inexplicably resentful of her. Lottie seemed to sense this and had behaved even more impeccably, which was peculiarly irritating, too.
Worse, she had the distinct suspicion that, despite everything she said, Lottie was still going to that actress’s house. She offered to help Virginia with the shopping, which she had never done before. And then took several hours just to get a pound of mackerel. Or even half a day to pick up Dr. Holden’s newspaper. Twice she had come home smelling of scents that you most definitely could not get in Mr. Ansty’s chemist shop. And then, when one asked her, she would fix you with that rather too direct stare and say in a tone that, frankly, Susan found rather aggressive, that No, She Had Not Been to the Actress’s House. Because Hadn’t Mrs. Holden Told Her Not To? She really was too much sometimes.
Susan should have known, really. Lots of people had warned her against taking in an evacuee. She had disregarded those that said all the London children had nits and lice (although she had peered quite closely at eight-year-old Lottie’s hair when she arrived) and those that said she would steal or that the parents would follow and camp in their house and they’d never be rid of any of them.
No, there was only the mother, and she had never visited so much as once. She had written Susan Holden two letters, once after the first long stay, thanking her in that awful handwriting of hers, and the second time a year later when Susan had invited the child to return. But she had seemed rather relieved to have the child off her hands.
And Lottie had never stolen anything or run away or got too forward with boys. No, if anything, Susan was forced to
“So don’t tell him,” said Lottie, emerging from their room, her face straight. “He’s not interested in women’s gossip anyway.”
“Women’s gossip? Is that what you call it?” Susan Holden stood on the stairs, clutching the banister. “You both humiliate me in front of polite society and you think this is just women’s gossip?”
From inside their room she heard Celia mutter something.
“What was that? What did you say?”
Lottie was gazing into their room. After a moment Celia stuck her head around the door.
“I said we’re terribly sorry, Mummy, and of course we’ll stay well away from the disreputable rabble, as Mrs. Chilton so eloquently put it.”
Mrs. Holden gave them both her longest, hardest look. But she swore she could see the faintest of smiles playing around Lottie’s lips. And, realizing she was not about to get any more out of either of them, she mustered up what little dignity she could and walked slowly back downstairs, to where Freddie was building himself a rabbit hutch out of old crates. In the good parlor. To live in.
And now Celia had gone. And Lottie, although she had been careful to do all her chores and had been relentlessly polite and helped with Sylvia’s homework, had for weeks been mooning around like a sick puppy when she thought no one was looking. It was all rather wearing. And somehow Susan Holden felt rather less comfortable about Lottie’s presence in the house than she once had. Not that she would have admitted it to anyone. Not after all the hard work she had been seen to put into the girl’s upbringing. It was just that when it had been the two of them together and she had fed them together, bought their clothes together, scolded them together . . . it had been somehow easier to consider Lottie just part of the family. Now, with Celia gone, she felt unable to deal with Lottie in quite the same way. If Susan admitted it to herself, she felt inexplicably resentful of her. Lottie seemed to sense this and had behaved even more impeccably, which was peculiarly irritating, too.
Worse, she had the distinct suspicion that, despite everything she said, Lottie was still going to that actress’s house. She offered to help Virginia with the shopping, which she had never done before. And then took several hours just to get a pound of mackerel. Or even half a day to pick up Dr. Holden’s newspaper. Twice she had come home smelling of scents that you most definitely could not get in Mr. Ansty’s chemist shop. And then, when one asked her, she would fix you with that rather too direct stare and say in a tone that, frankly, Susan found rather aggressive, that No, She Had Not Been to the Actress’s House. Because Hadn’t Mrs. Holden Told Her Not To? She really was too much sometimes.
Susan should have known, really. Lots of people had warned her against taking in an evacuee. She had disregarded those that said all the London children had nits and lice (although she had peered quite closely at eight-year-old Lottie’s hair when she arrived) and those that said she would steal or that the parents would follow and camp in their house and they’d never be rid of any of them.
No, there was only the mother, and she had never visited so much as once. She had written Susan Holden two letters, once after the first long stay, thanking her in that awful handwriting of hers, and the second time a year later when Susan had invited the child to return. But she had seemed rather relieved to have the child off her hands.
And Lottie had never stolen anything or run away or got too forward with boys. No, if anything, Susan was forced to
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