The Little White Horse (11 page)

‘Song’ she wrote at the top of her paper, the ink spluttering from her angry nib . . . Ah, but she had seen Robin. The sight of Robin had come like a reward to a good girl, because she had not pushed her way into the kitchen . . . Moonacre
was
showing her things, but in its own time and its own way. She must just be patient.

She smiled, threw the blotted piece of paper in the fire, took a fresh sheet, and began again; and to her surprise, in spite of her rebellious mood, the simple little words came easily, fitting themselves to the tune that had come out of the harpsichord. It didn’t seem to her that she made them up at all. It seemed to her that they flew in from the rose-garden, through the open window, like a lot of butterflies, poised themselves on the point of her pen, and fell off it on to the paper.

When she had finished she went to the harpsichord, opened it, and played and sang her song right through . . . But no, it wasn’t her song, it was somebody else’s . . . And again she was sure there was someone listening out in the rose-garden. She ran to the window and looked out, and just for a moment she thought she saw a small figure, more like a fairy than a human being, moving out there. But when she looked again there was nothing to be seen except the tangled briars and all the lovely little birds with their rainbow-coloured wings. They were singing gloriously this morning, twittering and chirping and carolling and shouting and fluting and humming in praise of spring, until it was a wonder they did not burst their throats. What was the bird that hummed like that? Maria had heard of humming-birds, but she had not thought that they lived in England. The humming, which had been just a small thread of sound at first, grew louder and louder, until it did not sound like humming at all, but like a powerful kettle on the boil. And it did not come from the rose-garden but from the room behind her. She turned round, and there, seated before the fire, between the sleeping Wiggins and Serena in their respective baskets, staring into the flames and purring loudly, was a black cat.

Zachariah.

Maria held her breath and stared. Never in all her born days had she seen such a cat. He was enormous, twice the size of any cat she had ever seen in London. His black fur was short, but so exquisitely glossy that it gleamed like satin. His tail stretched out along the floor
behind him for a good yard and looked like a fat black snake; the tip of it, slightly lifted, was twitching from side to side, suggesting that in spite of that tremendous booming purr Zachariah’s temper was something that had to be reckoned with. He had a noble head, with a great domed forehead, and large but beautifully shaped ears. His chest, as was only to be expected when one considered the volume of sound that came out of it, looked unusually powerful, and so did his broad shoulders and haunches and strong paws.

He was altogether a most imposing-looking animal, and when he turned his head and his great emerald-green eyes blazed out at her, she was almost as scared as she had been when first introduced to Wrolf. He was of a solitary disposition, she remembered Sir Benjamin telling her, and she did not like to approach him without his permission. She just stood where she was and dropped him a curtsy.

This piece of politeness seemed to please him, for he arose and approached her, arranging his tail in the air over his back in three neat coils and stepping forth over the sea-green carpet with a dignity that was almost shattering. When he arrived at Maria, he began walking round her in circles, each circle a little narrower than the one before, until at last he was going round and round against her skirts, pressing so close that she could feel the vibration of his purring against her legs.

Then and then only, did she dare to bend down and touch his head with her fingers . . . It was exquisitely soft . . . He did not seem to mind. He circled against her legs once more, then abruptly ceased purring, and led the way towards the half-open parlour door. With a beating heart Maria followed him through into the hall.

Wrolf was awake but did not, this time, express any dissatisfaction with Maria’s purpose — though visiting the kitchen this time was not, strictly speaking, Maria’s purpose but Zachariah’s . . .

Zachariah stood upon his hind legs and knocked up
the latch of the kitchen door with one blow of his powerful right paw. He went in, Maria following, and Wrolf arose and pushed the door shut behind them.

Maria, in the kitchen, once more stood and gazed. The kitchen was glorious, flagged with great stone flags scrubbed to the whiteness of snow, and nearly as big as the hall. Its ceiling was crossed by great oak beams from which hung flitches of bacon and bunches of onions and herbs. It had two open fireplaces, one for boiling stews and cooking pies, and another, with a spit, for roasting. There were two oval bread-ovens set in the thickness of the wall, and hanging from hooks all round the walls were pots and pans, so well polished that they reflected the light like mirrors. There was a large wash-tub in one corner, and against the wall an enormous oak dresser where pretty china stood in neat rows; and an oak table stood in the centre of the room. There were several doors which Maria guessed led to the larders and the dairy. The windows looked out over the stable-yard, so that the morning sun filled the room, and the whole place was merry and bright and warm and scrupulously clean. There were no chairs, but a wooden bench against the wall, and several three-legged wooden stools. One of these stools had been pulled up to the table, and standing upon it, facing Maria as she came in, was a little hunchbacked dwarf making pastry. He gave a brief nod and pointed with his rolling-pin to the bench against the wall.

‘Marmaduke Scarlet, at your service, young Mistress,’ he said in a crisp squeaky voice. ‘Seat yourself, but do not articulate. I cannot indulge in conversation while I am engaged in the creation of a veal pie.’

Yet though his manner was abrupt he seemed well disposed towards her, for there suddenly flashed across his face a smile so broad that the ends of it seemed to run into his ears, and his small round sparkling black eyes twinkled at her very pleasantly. Yet Maria was heartily thankful that Wrolf had prevented her from entering this kitchen uninvited this morning, for there was something
about him that told her he was not a person to be taken liberties with. She crossed to the bench, sat down, and folded her hands very humbly in her lap.

Zachariah, meanwhile, mounted upon another stool beside the dwarf, and sat there purring and swinging his tail and occasionally stretching out a huge paw and helping himself very daintily to a piece of pastry. It was obvious that these two were affectionate and inseparable companions, and that he was privileged. And there wasn’t much difference in their size, Zachariah being nearly as big as the dwarf.

Sitting humbly on her bench, Maria looked at the dwarf. He wasn’t looking at her now, he was absorbed in his pastry, and so she was able to have a real good stare. Never had she seen such a creature, and her lips parted slightly in astonishment.

He must, she thought, be very old, for the fringe of whisker that encircled his whole face like a ham frill was snow white, and so were his bushy eyebrows. Except for the whisker frill, his face was clean-shaven, brown as an oak-apple, and criss-crossed with hundreds of little wrinkles. His nose was so snug that there seemed very little of it; but what there was of it was evidently sensitive, for it quivered as he worked, like a rabbit’s. His sense of smell, like that of all good cooks, was obviously very highly developed indeed. His large mouth was a great half-moon of generosity when he smiled, a rat-trap of determination when he shut it. His brown ears were much too big for the rest of him, but they were beautifully shaped and tapered to a delicate point, like a fawn’s. His arms, too, were much too big for the rest of him, and when he let them hang down his big brown hands reached nearly to his ankles. His feet, on the contrary, were small and dainty as a child’s, but he was very bow-legged and his hump was as pronounced as that of Mr Punch.

But in spite of being so oddly assorted in the matter of limbs he was, nevertheless, a delight to the eye because of the sparkling cleanliness of his person and the brightness
of his clothes. Upon his head he wore a scarlet skull-cap. His coat and breeches were heather-coloured, and were worn with an emerald-green waistcoat, embroidered with scarlet poppies. His worsted stockings were heather-coloured too, and his brown shoes were ornamented with shining silver buckles. He wore a snow-white apron with a bib to it, to protect his finery while he worked.

It was a delight to watch Marmaduke Scarlet making pastry, for if ever a man was a master-craftsman at his work that man was Marmaduke. He wielded his rolling-pin like a king’s sceptre, and so light was his pastry that it looked more like sea-foam than dough as he flicked it over on his board. Beside him stood a great dish full of succulent chunks of veal and ham, hard-boiled eggs, parsley, and chopped onion. Maria’s mouth watered as she looked at it, and when he swung the great oval of white pastry over it she had to swallow hard. Then he started to make the decorations for the top of it, his skilful fingers pinching out flowers and leaves from the dough with an artistry that any sculptor might have envied.

When it was done he carried it to one of the fireplaces, where a log fire was burning low, cleared a space for it, set it on the hearth, and covered it with an iron cover and then with a mound of hot ashes. Then he went to one of the bread ovens and opened the iron door, and inside Maria saw that a bundle of burning faggots was just dropping to hot ash, and that the bricks that lined the oven were glowing hot. Marmaduke raked the ashes to one side, lifted a white cloth from two great bowls on the floor, where the bread had been set to rise, put the loaves in the oven, and slammed the door.

Then he went through one of the doors in the wall, through which Maria could see a cool stone-vaulted larder, and came back with a big blue bowl full of eggs and a blue jug of cream; and, mounting once more upon his stool, he proceeded to make a syllabub. Twelve eggs went to the making of the syllabub, a pint of cream, and cinnamon for flavouring.

‘I wonder now,’ thought Maria to herself, ‘will Miss Heliotrope be able to eat that syllabub after that pie?’

But she need not have worried, for it appeared that Marmaduke’s sensitive quivering nose had scented from afar a box of peppermints in Miss Heliotrope’s reticule. For as soon as he had whisked up the syllabub he made a nice plain junket, with a dash of brandy in it, and nutmeg on the top.

‘For her first course,’ he squeaked, suddenly breaking a silence that had lasted for a very long time, ‘there will be a coddled egg.’

It seemed that Marmaduke Scarlet had finished cooking for the moment. He stacked his cooking things neatly together, fetched a big red earthenware bowl, and filled it with warm water from the kettle on the hearth . . . Maria dared to speak at last.

‘If you are going to wash up, may I dry?’ she asked humbly.

Marmaduke Scarlet considered the question. ‘Are you able to give me your absolute assurance that you are not a smasher?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t think I am,’ said Maria. ‘Of course I don’t really know, because I’ve not dried up before.’

‘Are you accustomed to drop your hairbrush when arranging your coiffure of a morning?’ demanded Marmaduke.

‘No, never,’ Maria assured him.

‘Then you may dry,’ he said graciously. ‘You may take one of those dishcloths from the line, fetch yourself a stool, and give me the benefit of your assistance during those ablutions that necessarily, though unfortunately, invariably follow the exercise of the culinary art.’

Marmaduke Scarlet, it seemed, made up for the shortness of his stature by using very long words in conversation. It struck Maria that if she had much to do with him she would need to keep a dictionary in her pocket.

She fetched the cloth and stool as bidden, and the three
of them, Maria and Marmaduke and Zachariah the cat, grouped themselves in a row at the table, Marmaduke standing on his stool and Maria and Zachariah sitting; and Marmaduke washed and Maria dried and Zachariah just purred. Marmaduke looked quite sunny and good-tempered now that he was no longer cooking, and Maria dared to ask him the question that had been burning on the tip of her tongue ever since she had observed his tiny size.

‘Please, Mr Scarlet,’ she asked, ‘is it you who looks after me in my room, lighting my fire and bringing me warm water and milk and sugar biscuits?’

Marmaduke gave her another of his glorious wide benevolent smiles, the ends of it running right up into his ears. ‘Naturally, young Mistress,’ he squeaked. ‘Who else in this establishment, besides yourself, is of sufficiently delicate stature to get through the aperture that leads to your bed-chamber? And if for any reason I don’t wish to be seen passing through the hall, I climb up the cedar-tree from the garden and into your room through the window to do for you those small services that are my duty.’

‘Thank you, oh, thank you,’ said Maria. ‘And do you put those lovely clothes ready for me, and lay the little bunches of flowers on them?’

But now, alas, she had said the wrong thing. Marmaduke’s face darkened like a thundercloud, his smile broke abruptly in half, the two ends disappearing into his ears like rabbits bolting into their burrows, his great bushy eyebrows beetled at her, and his eyes shot sparks, and when he spoke his voice ceased to be a squeak and boomed at her like a roll of thunder.

‘Does my appearance suggest that of a female lady’s maid?’ he demanded. ‘Does any self-respecting male concern himself with ribbons and laces and female rubbish? Allow me to inform you, young Mistress, that if there is one thing in this universe for which I have not the slightest partiality it is a female. And my master, the Squire, entertains in his bosom the same sensations of
distaste for the daughters of Eve as those that lodge in the breast of his humble retainer. Until you and your lady governess arrived upon the steps of this mansion no female had darkened our doors for twenty years.’