Friends and Lovers (18 page)

“If I ever pose for Watteau, I shall be sure to load myself down with lace.”

"That is unlikely. The man has been dead for close to a hundred years. You are not much interested in art, I take it?”

“No, not much,” I replied, scanning the grass for Lady.

“Do you ride at all?” was his next question.

“I used to, a few years ago. My mount expired of old age, and I have not ridden since.”

“You must have had some lively jogs, those last few years. Why do you not get a new mount?”

“For lack of interest. And capital,” I added, more truthfully.

“How delightful to find you capable of a pun.”

“Equally surprising to find you appreciate one,” I replied, with matching condescension.

“Have I offended again? Tch tch, and I wasn’t even trying.”

I veered off to the left to look behind a thorn bush, thinking Lady might be lurking there to catch a bird.

“Are we looking for something?” he asked.

“You might keep your eyes peeled for Lady, Mrs. Pudge’s white kitten. She has vanished into thin air.”

“How intriguing. The Lady Vanishes—quite like a gothic mystery. I expect you read gothic stories.”

“I haven’t time for much reading. She does not have wings, Menrod. The ground is where we will find her,” I said, as he had stopped to stare all around—up in the trees, the sky, and other unlikely places.

“I was admiring the newly formed leaves, so dainty this time of year, like green lace.”

“That would appeal to you, of course. You have a fetish about lace. Were you deprived of it as a child?”

“As a child, but I have made up the deficiency since coming of age,” he answered daringly, with a bold smile to show he spoke of petticoat dealings.

I did not humor him with a sniff, or show any sign of being either outraged or impressed with his boasting. He decided to give me an explanation. “I feel one owes it to himself to enjoy and appreciate all the good things the Lord has provided us with on this earth: pretty women, the arts, literature, music, horses, and so on. It is a mistake to think goodness exists in denial of the bounty around us, don’t you agree?”

“This is another of the famous Menrod theories, I assume. Enjoy them, by all means, if you are able to afford it. I enjoy what meager bounties as come my way. The trouble with theories is trying to execute them. I’m sure a veteran theoretician like yourself has discovered that fact eons ago.”

“Money and freedom of one’s time are of course necessary to appreciate the finer things of life. If you accepted Everett’s offer, you would have both.”

“I would also have Everett. Tell me, Menrod, are the children included in your list of the good things of life to be enjoyed? Are they considered as paintings, or horses, in your scheme of things? Interesting objects, and no more?”

We had caught up with them. They
did
make a lovely picture, the two youngsters on their matching ponies, trotting and laughing in the sunlight. As I glanced at Menrod, I noticed the appreciative smile he wore at the handsome picture.

“More than that, though they ought to be painted. Who should we have do it?” He gave a disparaging laugh. “You would not know the good artists working in England, of course. Reynolds and Romney are gone.”

“This sounds a project to please yourself, not the children.”

“I shall teach them to appreciate the finer things in life. Can
you,
in your straitened circumstances?”

“So there
was
a point to this conversation! I began to think you were drawing forth my deficiencies for no other reason than meanness,”

His smile vanished, to be replaced by a black scowl.

“It is not wealth that creates a mean mind, but poverty,” he answered sharply.

“Sorry I cannot afford to be so magnanimous as you.”

“You cannot afford to raise the children as they ought to be raised, and you will not accept Everett to make it possible. You are not willing to sacrifice for them. What makes you think you deserve them more than I?”

“What sacrifice are
you
willing to make?”

“I am here. Normally I would be elsewhere in the spring, having a better time. That shows clearly I am willing to sacrifice for them.”

“Is it such a sacrifice, to spend six weeks in a mansion, surrounded by every luxury money can buy? All things are relative.”

He soon found it expedient to take the children home, mentioning in an offhand way he wished to arrange to have their portraits taken.

One excitement that did not visit us was the invitations to the ball. We now knew we were to attend, but it would have been more graceful if we had a piece of cardboard saying so. I, for one, was uncertain whether we should go without receiving the invitations. A dozen times a day Mama bemoaned their absence.

“Menrod must have forgotten to tell his stepmother,” she would fret.

“He said he would post them himself,” I reminded her.

“It has slipped his mind. How very odd.”

Mr. Everett dropped in every second day, as usual. He occasionally teased me about our spurious engagement, but in no pressing way. He mentioned having seen Lady Althea, Menrod, and the children in Reading on two different occasions.

“A fine-looking family,” he commented. “I believe it may come to a match ere long. Don’t fret your pretty little head, Wendy. Lady Althea will make them a good mother. She is very fond of those kiddies, treats them as if they were her own.”

I made some ill-natured remark that set Mama to tsking at me.

Lady did not show up, throwing Mrs. Pudge into a great pelter. She spoke of the loss till we were all weary with her groaning. She was consumed with grief, as though it were a daughter that had gone, and not a stupid cat.

“That devil cat has got her,” she repined. “Kidnapped her, taken her away to the Manor. She made her bed in hell, and must lie on it.”

Ralph and Gwen came down twice, on those days when Mr. Everett did not come. Gwen came to follow the progress of her riding habit, and to urge even greater fineries on me. “Could I have a little mink collar on it, Auntie?” she asked sweetly. “I shall keep it for a winter habit. My green one will be for warmer weather, for it was made in India, you know, and is not at all heavy.”

“Children don’t need fur trim, Gwen,” I told her.

“Uncle Menrod is getting me a fur-lined cape for winter,” she announced on the second call. “I told him how
cold
I am all the time, after living in India. I think I have got a cold. My lungs are congested,” she said, with a cough to prove the point.

There were other extravagant gifts from Menrod as well, more than a child required, or than were good for her. She wore a small pearl ring too, a gift from Aunt Althea for helping her wind her woolens.

Ralph was his usual undemanding self, wanting nothing but my companionship. I seem always to be pointing out Gwen’s greedy side, but between asking for things, she was sweet and likable. She would be happy to curl up beside us in the sitting room and hear stories about her mother’s childhood. She asked questions about it, showing how often Hettie had spoken of us, and how well she had listened too. I did not dislike her by any means, but was aware that she had a greedy streak in her makeup, or perhaps only a love of beautiful things.

One day she went to Hettie’s room and picked up half a dozen of her mother’s items, some books, a little wooden jewelry box with some childish beads in it, and other baubles. Mama smiled dotingly, thinking it a sentimental gesture, but it struck me as more. She had inherited this appreciation of the world’s bounties from her papa’s side of the family. She even tried her hand at relieving me of one of my more cherished possessions—an ivory miniature of Hettie—but I refused to let it go.

“Maybe I can get a copy made when we go to London. When are you going to take us to London, Auntie?”

“I don’t plan a trip soon,” I told her stiffly.

On the fifth day after his last visit, Menrod came again, rather late in the evening, I was surprised to see him, as a hard wind had blown up, carrying with it a few drops of rain, which augured more to follow soon. The air was oppressive. We sat shivering in the sitting room, bundled in shawls, discussing the wisdom of lighting the fire and being smoked to death, but had not come to a decision.

“A terrible night,” Menrod complained, coming in to shake the rain drops from his shoulders.

“What brings you out on such a night?” Mama enquired.

“Necessity, ma’am,” he said, handing her two white squares. “I discovered these cards under a pile of letters on my desk, and realized I had not given them to your daughter on my last visit, as I intended. I blame the lapse on her scintillating conversation. We got pulling some crow or other, and it slipped my mind.
Very
remiss of me, but it is a formality only. You knew you were to come.”

Mama was so relieved to get the cards that she actually cropped out into a smile and a few words of gratitude.

“You need not have come out in the rain only for that,” I told him.

“You are welcome too, Miss Harris,” he answered, with a formal bow and a less formal scowl.

After a few questioning looks at the cold grate, all ready to be lit, Mama understood he was wondering why we had no fire, and suggested lighting it.

“A very good idea,” he agreed unhesitatingly.

Pudge was called, to labor with the tinder box, then with twigs, newspapers, and other inducements to the flame when the fire did not take. At length, a weak lick of orange was flickering. Menrod arose and poked about at it impatiently, rearranging the logs to allow some draught.

His reward was a blast of smoke in the face that set him to coughing. On his next poke, the handle fell off the poker. He was so unaccustomed to making a fire that he picked up the hot shaft, and burned his fingers. He looked in disgruntlement at the antique fire irons. “Does nothing work around here?” he asked in vexation.

“We like to keep the proper antiques on hand, to match the authenticity of the place,” I reminded him. Mama, still happy with the invitations, darted to the corner to retrieve the newer poker for his use. The smoke increased with the flames, till it was necessary to vacate the room or be suffocated.

“You ought to have that chimney swept out,” he informed us.

“It is the thatched roof that makes it so difficult. A man dare not stand on it, you know, and our grate is so small a boy cannot get up from below. As you mentioned yourself on the stairway when you bumped your head, people must have been smaller two hundred years ago,” I said.

“It is not at all impossible to walk on a thatched roof, providing it is done carefully,” he answered unhesitatingly.

“Pudge is not agile,” Mama apologized.

“I’ll send a man down from the Manor. This is ridiculous. Where do you customarily sit when the sitting room is full of smoke?” he asked. I made sure he would leave instead, but it was not his intention.

“Wendy takes refuge in her conservatory, and I go to my bed,” Mama answered.

“We shall all go to the conservatory. Bring some lights, Pudge,” Menrod ordered. “It is as dark as pitch in this hallway,” he pointed out. A coat of light-yellow paint would lighten it, but it was only our own furnishings we dared put the brush to. As Mama was included in the command, she came along with us, still clutching the invitations.

My tiny conservatory had only two chairs, so that Pudge was required to make more than one trip. On his second, I further disobliged him by requesting some tea, which Mrs. Pudge brought about twenty minutes later. She does not usually loiter when we have such high company as Menrod, but on this occasion she hovered at the door after the tea was brought.

“Excuse me, milord, but I have a troublesome matter on my mind, and want your opinion,” she said shyly.

“What is it?” he asked, startled at her behavior.

“It’s my kitten,” she said, close to tears. “The dear thing has disappeared, and I was wondering if you’d seen ought of her around your barns. A snow-white kitten, with soft and shiny fur.”

“The place is full of cats. I’ll ask them tomorrow,” he said, then turned away from her. She curtsied three or four times, and backed from the doorway. “If Lady is not there, I’ll be happy to give her a replacement,” he offered.

“There would be no replacing Lady,” I told him. “Don’t think to unload your excess of strays by that ruse, unless you have a snow-white kitten.”

“A symbolic thing, is it, the white fur denoting her chaste condition? I doubt she’ll be entitled to it by the time she comes home, dragging her tail behind her, and a litter as well, if I know anything.”

He looked around the room. “I see the plants thrive, as usual. They have no aversion to their antique surroundings.”

“Wendy takes great care of them. She is puttering here half the time. If she took as much care of herself as she does of these plants, she would be better employed,” Mama told him.

“Yet they contrive to look natural, growing with wild profusion and abandonment,” he mentioned, his gaze moving around the wall. “A certain sweet disorder that is more beguiling than formality. Everyone requires an avocation. If a lady is not interested in art, music, literature, and so on, then she is fortunate to have found something to pass her idle hours. I daresay there is as much to be learned from Nature as from books. More, according to Mr. Wordsworth. You don’t actually have many blooms, do you?” he asked, searching the greenery for flowers.

"I favor pure greenery—ivies of various types, and so on.”

“Why, Wendy, you have said a dozen times you would love to try your hand at orchids,” Mama corrected me.

“The plainness of your horticulture suits you,” Menrod said, comparing me to my plants. “No showy blooms, no lacy finery, just good English stock.”

“They are free, you know,” Mama rambled on, now that she was overcoming her fear of Menrod. “She digs up things that are growing outdoors, puts them in pots, where they thrive prodigiously. Her bedroom is the same. She has a
tree
growing in a corner, a real live tree.”

“A palm?” Menrod asked, with some interest.