Friends and Lovers (19 page)

“No, a lemon tree that she grew from seeds herself as an experiment.”

“It will not bear fruit if it is not grafted or fertilized,” he instructed.

“I don’t expect it to. I like the leaves, the look of the tree in my room.”

“Lemon seems a suitable plant,” he said cryptically, but I understood it as a hint at my astringent nature.

“Wendy could make a sow’s ear of a silken purse,” Mama confided. “She has no taste for ornament. She
removed
the silken rose from her new bonnet two years ago, saying red was too garish. Not like her sister, Hettie. She was always fond of pretty things, like little Gwen.”

“I am surprised your austerity permits you to have so many yellow furnishings,” he said, in a quizzical spirit.

“That is so we will not be bumping into them in the dark,” Mama outlined. “The light yellow stands out in the gloom better than old oak or mahogany.”

“You actually painted good oaken and mahogany furnishings yellow?” he asked, staring at the desecration.

“No, not
good
pieces,” Mama went on to exculpate us. “The manse we were used to live in was furnished, you see, so when we moved here, we had to
buy
our household. Most of it we picked up at Mrs. Perkins’s estate sale for an old song—wretched stuff, but it looks bright, at least, now.”

“Have the children begun to sit for the portraits yet?” I asked, to stem Mama’s loquacity.

“Yes, and are mighty bored with it already. I think Wendy is just what Mr. Everett needs to tone him down, don’t you, Mrs. Harris?” he said, reverting quickly to the less pleasant subject.

“I have told her so a dozen times,” she answered eagerly. “We could tame his taste, between the two of us. He is always agreeable to any hint.” This subject, in various forms, made up the last ten minutes of the visit.

When Menrod said in a reluctant way that he supposed he ought to be getting home, I hopped swiftly to my feet to see him out. “You will want to get to the Manor before the storm breaks,” I encouraged.

“As long as I am safely out the door before you start ranting, I shall be satisfied,” he replied, with a knowing smile.

“I referred to the weather.”

“I misunderstood, but a storm is brewing inside too, I think. I was only funning. When I finally struck on a topic so agreeable to your mother, I milked it for all its worth. She is overcoming her shyness of me. I had not realized she favored the match so strongly. It must be unpleasant for you to go against her wishes—such a dutiful little daughter as you are in all other respects.”

“Don’t measure me up for a halo. I am not particularly dutiful.”

“Don’t disillusion me just when I feel I am beginning to understand you.”

“I didn’t realize I presented such a riddle.”

“Say problem, rather. What I mean by that is, I am coming reluctantly to the conclusion you would be good for Gwendolyn. Ralph definitely needs a man’s influence, but Gwen... She is such a conning rascal, she needs a firm hand, preferably a feminine hand. She makes cake of us men, with her feminine guile. I have actually—I can’t believe I am such a soft touch—promised her a fur-lined cape for next winter. You, I know, are proof against her wheedling. She speaks often of some miniature of Hettie I am to get copied for her, as you are too mean to give her the picture of her own dear mama. I admire your powers in having withstood her persuasions.”

“She has an insidious way of getting what she wants, but it is really Ralph I prefer—I mean, naturally I would be happy to have them both. Are you truly reconsidering?”

“No, but my obstinacy is beginning to bother me a little. That is greater headway than I ever expected you to make. Keep hammering away at me, Miss Harris. Or may I call you Wendy?”

“If you wish.”

“Thank you,” he said, which sounded a formal termination of our visit. He bowed, said good evening, and walked to the door, then walked back to the sitting room and stuck his head in. “The smoke has cleared. I’ll have the chimney cleaned tomorrow.”

“How are your burned fingers?” I asked.

“Badly singed. That will teach me to play with fire.”

“I hoped it would teach you the inefficacy of using two-hundred-year-old articles.”

“I shall
really
leave now, before you remind me of the box stairs. Thank you for a charming evening, Wendy.”

I do not know what charm he could have found in an evening marred with smoking grate, burned fingers, lukewarm tea, and my mother’s nervous, chatter, but he sounded sincere.

The next day is recorded in the
family
annals as the day Menrod went through the roof. What a time we had next morning, when the man came down from the Manor to clean the chimney. Menrod accompanied him, to see no damage was done to the aged thatch. He brought three mangy brindled cats, which he suggested hopefully Mrs. Pudge might like to have, as he could not find Lady, and which I suggested he take home with him when he left. Gwen was in hands with the newly arrived governess, but Ralph, too young for lessons, was along for the sport.

“They will be useful to hunt out the mice in the roof,” Menrod explained.

Mama, Mrs. Pudge, her husband, and myself went out to watch the spectacle. The chimney sweep chosen was one of his grooms, a dark youth called Tarn. It happened that our ladder did not quite reach the roof, so it was necessary to bring the farm cart out to place the ladder on, with Pudge and Menrod holding the bottom steady.

Tarn scampered up to the roof, then had his long-handled broom passed up to him. Once atop the roof, he required a box to stand on, for he was not tall enough, nor his arms long enough, to get the broom down the chimney. When the box was passed up, it was too wobbly to stand on, so Menrod had to go up and hold it steady.

“I should have brought another boy with me,” he complained.

“I
believe it is a man’s job. Are you afraid to tackle it, Menrod?” I prodded.

“Certainly not. I happen to be wearing a new jacket that I don’t want to get soiled.”

“I will be happy to hold it for you.”

He removed it, folded it carefully, and handed it over to me, glaring angrily the whole time. It was my turn to climb up on the cart and steady the ladder with Pudge, while he went up to the roof, very reluctantly. I believe he was frightened to death of the height, though he was too proud to admit it. He looked timidly over his shoulder as he climbed, and was careful to go in well past the edge once he got up there.

The next thing we knew, there was a terrific bellow from above. I looked in fright, expecting to see Tarn tumble from the roof, but I saw nothing for a moment. Soon Tarn’s head peered over the edge.

“His lordship has fallen through the roof,” he said fearfully.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mama squealed. “Pudge—Wendy—do something.”

I didn’t know whether to be frightened or amused. I went up the ladder with only Pudge steadying it, none too carefully, either. When I saw Menrod’s situation, I gave up all thoughts of fright, and tried instead to contain my mirth. He was not in the least danger. One leg had sunk through the thatched roof, up past the knee, but he was not about to fall through the rest of the way. The remainder of his body held him up, very uncomfortably, I should think, with one leg stretched out to distribute the weight, while he more or less sat on the roof.

“Careful, miss,” Tarn cautioned. “That’s right where his lordship fell through.”

I picked my way cautiously to him, to try to pull him up. It was futile. The roof was too soft to allow me to stand firm anywhere near him, and he was too heavy. Every time he exerted any pressure himself, he sank deeper. “How the hell am I going to get out of here?” he demanded.

“You’re not. If you don’t stop wiggling, you are going to fall through the roof entirely, and break your leg.”

He placed no reliance on my intelligence, but gave a good heave that sent him through nearly to the waist, with still the other leg bent at an awkward position on the thatch. He looked like a giant, one-legged crab.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“On the cottage roof,” I answered, bewildered.

"I know that! What is beneath me, in the cottage?”

“At the southeast side, it must be Mama’s room,” I answered.

“Is there a bed to fall on?”

“I’ll go below and see. Tap on the ceiling if you can, to let me know exactly where you are. I shall have the bed moved to you.”

“Make it snappy. I’m sinking an inch every second.”

I ran toward the roof's edge. “Be careful!” he shouted after me.

Mama and Mrs. Pudge had overheard our discussion. They went before me up the stairs. It was not necessary for Menrod to tap on the ceiling to give us his exact location. His booted foot had come right through the plaster, to dangle twelve inches into the room. A canopied bed being an impossible thing to move, we three women rushed to bring the truckle cot from a spare room and place it beneath his foot, where he would come landing any moment.

“It’s all right. You can drop now,” I called up to him. He could not hear me through the ceiling. Mama ran to the window, opened it, and shouted to him.

There was a great shattering and heaving of the plaster, as he kicked it in, somehow, with his free foot. He landed in a shower of plaster dust, splintered lathes, and chunks of plaster on the truckle bed. When I determined he was not hurt, I said demurely, “I told you it was impossible to clean the chimney. Thank you for trying.”

“You are welcome, Miss Harris,” he answered, then he lay down, closed his eyes and remained thus, like a corpse, till his panting had subsided. He used what he called his condition of “shock” to cadge an invitation to remain for lunch. As my prime favorite, Ralph, was with him, his first hints were heeded.

“I feel so shaken up, I had best sit tight a couple of hours,” he pointed out, after Pudge had been pressed into service as a valet to wipe the plaster from his head and clothing.

“If you are to sit like a cushion on our sofa all morning, I wish you would put on your jacket at least,” I requested. “What would anyone who dropped in think, to see you in shirt sleeves?”

“I doubt Mr. Everett would take it amiss,” he replied.

Very little was seen of Ralph on that occasion. Several mice had their homes disturbed by the excitement on the roof, so that Ralph acted as herdsman for the three cats. Menrod had some private words with Tarn before sending him back to the Manor—some business or other he was postponing.

Menrod found our sofa, and later my conservatory, so comfortable, there was no budging him. Jocular questions about sending for his valet to bring a change of clothing were answered with another joke.

“Do we dress for dinner? Why not make it a trunk?— I may have to stay for a day or two.”

“You don’t match our decor.”

“Paint me yellow—hang a plant on me,” he suggested.

It was very odd the way he stayed so long, but I began to suspect there was a reason for it. He had spoken of his obstinacy in the matter of the children. Mixed in with his foolish chatter, there were a good many pertinent questions designed to discover how life went on at our cottage, day to day. I hoped he was reconsidering his decision to keep them at the Manor. Unfortunately there was no disguising the fact that we led a quiet, sequestered, fairly dull life, one that would not give the children those worldly advantages their uncle considered necessary.

“I hope I am not keeping you from some important engagements, Wendy?” he asked, early on.

“Not in the least. I can give my plants their morning tea while we talk.”

He was surprised I did actually water them with diluted tea left over from breakfast. “They take it straight, I see. No milk or sugar.”

“They are purists. They don’t care a fig for coffee, but weak, tepid tea once a week appeals to them.”

“How did you come across this obscure wisdom?”

“I learned it from Sir Harold Milgrove, the Reading botanist.”

“I did not realize you knew him,” Menrod said, brightening at my knowing a learned local gentleman.

“I don’t. He does a column in the local newspaper. I should like to meet him. Those two-hundred-year-old rosebushes out front could do with some help. He is an expert on roses. Mama and I toured his rose gardens last season. Delightful.”

“Why do you not call on him, or invite him to call on you?” he asked, astonished I should want to meet him for a decade and never stir a finger to accomplish such a simple aim.

“I don’t know him. How should I call on a perfect stranger?”

“It could surely be arranged through a mutual friend. A common interest will always serve as an excuse. Only consider how our mutual guardianship of Ralph and Gwen has brought us together. Last year we were no more than nodding acquaintances; now I feel free to run tame at the cottage. Drop in any time, even through the roof.”

“You can feel free to leave, too, whenever you recover from your shocked condition.”

“You mean that as a facer, I know, but I am flattered. I have a theory... that is, when your hostess takes the liberty to hint you away so broadly, you know you are on firm ground. No one would be so farouche as to request a mere acquaintance to leave. That privilege is restricted to good friends. As we are now friends, don’t feel it necessary to entertain me. But on the other hand, if you are at liberty, don’t take that as a hint to leave, either.”

“I am not likely to leave before I have served all my guests their tea,” I pointed out, lifting the watering pot high to reach a fern that has the place of honor, atop a stone pedestal beside the window.

This particular friend, the fern, is troublesome. It is necessary to draw a stool from the corner to reach her. When Menrod saw what I was about, he took the pot from me and watered the plant. This done, he held the pot precariously over my head, and enquired whether I would like a drink while he was about it. I am willing to accept his word that it was an accident four or five drops did indeed fall on me.

“They will do you good,” he assured me, patting the top of my head. “A green girl needs her tea, as well as a green fern.”