Friends and Lovers (8 page)

“No! Good gracious, no! He is not a monster of depravity. He is only inconsiderate of the children’s day-to-day comfort. I do not want you asking such questions as that of his friends.”

“I deal subtle-like,” he assured me.

I next mentioned Peter’s inheritance of ten thousand pounds, which would provide them a more comfortable home than Lady Anne’s cottage, lest Menrod use that against me.

“Aha!” Culligan said, his lips splitting in a smile. “It is their blunt he’s after. That is an excellent point. Would you happen to know if he’s ever got money from anyone else by these underhanded means?”

“Certainly he has not! It is not the children’s money he is after, either. That was not my meaning. Really, I think you are going at this the wrong way, Mr. Culligan. I do not want Menrod traduced so wantonly as you are doing.” I was beginning to consider dropping the case entirely, or the lawyer, at least.

“Now I see you are vexed with me,” he said. “You must not think because I speak very frankly to you within these walls that I will shout the same questions about the countryside, Miss Harris. Client privilege—what you say to me here will never be uttered by me outside. It is my duty, as your lawyer, to do my best to win the case for you. You may be sure Menrod is following the same course with his man, in having your character looked into. It is the normal way of going on. Law is a messy business, but we’ll wrap the whole up in a clean linen when the time comes to go public. Don’t take another pique, but I really must enquire whether there is anything in your own background that don’t bear scrutiny. No liaisons, never run afoul of the law, paid your debts all up proper, and so on, have you?”

“My character is good,” I said, incensed, though I knew the question was necessary.

“We owe the greengrocer two pounds,” Mama reminded me.

This naive statement convinced Culligan we were a pair of angels. He went into a merry peal of laughter. It was a long, distasteful interview. I was told to go through my correspondence with Hettie, for I had kept her letters, and discover whether there was anything indicating I should be the children’s guardian in case they were orphaned. I knew there was nothing of the sort, but he insisted I check.

I felt as though I had been rolling in a gutter when we finally got out into the clean sunshine. There was something depraved about the visit.

“You did not tell him about the stairs, Wendy,” was my mother’s first comment. “That shows a bad streak in his character, to make Mr. Everett take them out, when they were so much better than the old.”

“I fear that is a mark against us, rather than Menrod. We agreed not to change his house, and we broke our agreement. I will find those demmed old pokers and tongs this day, and restore them as well.”

“This is not the time to take up swearing, my dear, when that wretched man is having us investigated. We did not give our usual plum cake to the church bazaar last Christmas, either, when Mrs. Pudge had the cold. That is bound to come up, and cause a scandal. But then, your papa was a minister of the church, the best man who ever drew breath. That will have some weight in our favor. Three livings—a very successful minister.”

Three livings was the very thing to turn the common folks against us, smacking of privilege and even of a grasping nature. Every minutia of our simple lives was put under scrutiny, the process continuing long after we got home.

“Are we to have control of the kiddies?” Mrs. Pudge asked when we were admitted.

“I fear it will be a long process,” I told her. I was coming to see it would also be expensive. Culligan would wear a new shirt with unfrayed cuffs now, if he wished, and a proper chain and fob for his watch too.

“Never worry about it, Miss Wendy,” she said, taking pity on me in my affliction. “I have been looking it up in my Psalter, given to me by your dear papa, and have found succor. The wicked man, in his pride, may persecute the poor—aye, boast of his heart’s desire to get hold of our children, but he'll never do it. God that sits in His heaven won’t allow it. He shall laugh at the ungodly. Our Gwen and Ralph will be laying their dear little heads to rest here before you can bat an eye.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Pudge.”

“I’ll bring you both a cup of tea this very instant. You look as worn out as a pair of old shoes. I would have had it ready for you, but that old devil cat of Menrod’s has been chasing my Lady again, the bounder. Something is wrong with the world when I have to keep her locked inside the house to preserve her from the scoundrel. Speaking of which, Mr. Everett was here. He left you off a note.”

She brought the note with the tea. Both were delightful. The note informed us that Menrod was seen passing Oakdene in his traveling carriage, obviously en route to London. Some fine-honed questioning in town had confirmed this suspicion, which he knew would be good news for us. He added that the children were not with him.

I sat right down at my desk and wrote to Culligan, telling him that already Menrod had abandoned the children. When Pudge returned from delivering the note for us, he had a reply from Culligan, a letter containing such an outrageous and brilliant idea that my opinion of the man rose higher. It was couched in confusing legal jargon, as so many of his speeches were, but the gist of it was that I should kidnap the children, bring them to Lady Anne’s cottage, while I had the chance. He assured me I would be immune from legal action, as Menrod had no more real right to them than I. Till custody had been granted by the court, the children were in fact wards of the court. In a prosaic vein, he added that possession was nine points of the law, though he could find no actual precedent in his books for this common knowledge.

Mama was extremely doubtful about the wisdom of this course, but when both Mrs. Pudge and her husband lauded it, she was talked around.

“Didn’t the good Lord send an archangel to lead the baby Jesus away from Herod?” Mrs. Pudge demanded of Mama. There was no denying such an oft-told tale. “Miss Wendy will lead those innocent babes of Miss Hettie’s home to safety too. We’ll have all the heathen in derision by the time he gets back, with the doors barred,” she added, causing some little doubt as to who were the heathens in the case.

To tell the truth, I felt as guilty as one when I drove up to Menrod Manor and presented myself to the butler under the pretext of taking Gwen and Ralph for a drive.

“Lord Menrod did not
forbid
it, I trust?” I asked, with a smile. “He assured me I might see them as often as I wished. He would not have hired a governess yet, I assume, so they will not be at their books.”

“Oh, no, Miss Harris, not yet. He has gone up to London for the purpose,” the butler told me.

“Did he say how long he would be gone?”

“He will return as soon as his business is complete—a few days, he mentioned.”

“Who is looking after the children in the meanwhile?”

“Mrs. Butte, the housekeeper, has them in her charge. They are with some of the servant girls at the moment, having a game of skittles.”

The children were not so happy as one could have wished to be taken away from their game. “Good afternoon, Auntie,” Gwen said. Ralph said nothing. He crossed his ankles and stuck his thumb into his mouth, a trick I had not noticed before. I told him to remove it and get his jacket to come with me for a drive.

“Where are we going?” Gwen asked.

“To visit your grandma,” I answered.

“Does she have some cakes today?”

“Of course she has. If you are very good, we shall give you some.”

The bribe got them out the door without resorting to violence, though Gwen had the poor manners to mention twice more that she was enjoying the game of skittles very much, and winning too.

They were made as welcome as the prodigal son at the cottage, where Mama and Pudge awaited their arrival. Mrs. Pudge was even then laboring over a plum cake to please them.

“May we have the cake now?” Gwen asked, when she had been seated for two minutes.

“It is only three o’clock,” I pointed out.

“You said we could have some, Auntie,” she reminded me.

Ralph stuck his thumb in his mouth and rested his head on the upholstered arm of the chair he sat in. “That is no way for a little gentleman to behave in company,” I told him.

“Ralph is hungry,” his sister told me, wearing a sly little smile. Hettie had used to have a very similar expression, which had faded from my memory over the years. Nature is kind; she lets us hold onto what is dear, and fades the less beguiling memories.

“Then Ralph shall have an apple,” I answered.

“Uncle Menrod lets us have cake,” she answered.

“Does he give you sweets whenever you want them?” I asked, thinking I might have a bit of poor rearing practice here for Culligan to use. A despicable trick, I know, but this was war.

“No, he doesn’t,” Ralph said dismally. “He makes us eat gruel for breakfast, and beefsteak for lunch. It will make us strong.”

“Can we play skittles till teatime?” was Gwen’s next speech.

“We do not have any skittles, dear. Would you like to look at some books instead?” I asked.

“I don’t like books. Have you got any more of Mama’s dolls?”

“No, I gave you her only doll. Do you like to draw?”

This proved acceptable. For full five minutes she sat and drew, insisting at every stroke of the pen that we all gather and admire her squiggles. The child was deplorably spoiled; she required a firm hand, and I had one ready and willing to trim her into line, but first I must cozzen her along by more pleasant manners. After ten minutes, Mama had the inspired idea of sending her to the kitchen to help Mrs. Pudge make the cake. I breathed a sigh of relief to see the back of her, tossing her curls as she hastened out.

My interest then turned to Ralph. “Can I go to the stables?” he asked timidly.

“Let us wait till after tea.”

“After tea we will be going home.”

“Not immediately after tea. Would you like to stay here tonight, Ralph?” Mama asked.

He considered this a while. “No, thank you, Grandma,” he answered, but not in his sister’s saucy way. “I am learning to ride the wooden horse Uncle Menrod got me. I will go home and ride it after tea. Uncle says when I learn to ride like a proper cavalier, he will get me a real pony.”

“Not for a few years, I hope!” Mama exclaimed.

“Papa was riding when he was four.”

“That is much too young. It is dangerous,” she told him, her cheeks blanching.

“I
am not afraid. I am not afraid of anything. Except the dark, and the water. Mama and Papa were killed in the water,” he told us, his eyes shining with fear.

I felt it best to divert his thoughts, and offered to read him a story. We went together upstairs to the small room where our childhood relics were stored. There being only two girls in the family, we had not those tomes most likely to appeal to a young boy, but he found a book of old English tales having to do with knights on chargers and ladies locked in towers, that appealed to him.

He sat very close to me, actually clutching onto my skirts. I felt a rush of tenderness for him that was sorely lacking toward his sister, though I had always assumed it would be the girl, my own name-child, who would appeal more to me.

“Would you like to sit on my lap, Ralph?” I asked.

“Yes, please,” he said, easing himself up and leaning his little dark head against my chest. His fingers played nervously with the folds of my skirt. He felt such a pitiful, bereft little soul that I wanted to just cradle him in my arms and comfort him. There was a lump in my throat that made reading difficult.

This child, whatever about his sister, needed more than a housekeeper and an uncle who bought him a wooden horse, then drove off in his carriage to let the boy sit alone, learning to ride it.

We got on famously, Ralph and I. By teatime, he was clinging to me quite as fiercely as he used to cling to Menrod. Gwen, happy to have a large cake before her, became communicative and friendly, easy to like. Mama smiled dotingly on her, occasionally wiping away a tear. Gwen thanked us politely when tea was over, and said it was time she be getting home. It galled me, to hear the children call Menrod Manor home.

“As your uncle has gone to London for a few days, we thought you might like to stay here with us,” I said, giving a casual sound to it. Letting them know a battle was raging over them was the last thing I wanted.

“I would like to stay,” Ralph said at once.

Gwen sat considering the invitation carefully. I had an intuition her mind grappled with the probable quantities of cake and attention the two homes afforded. “All right, we’ll stay,” she decided. Her next speech showed me I was too hard on her. “Will you show me my mother’s room again, Auntie? May I sleep in her bed?”

She received a sympathetic yes to both questions, and a more sincere smile than usual from her aunt as well. “I shall send a note up to the Manor, asking them to send down some clothing,” I mentioned to Mama. I knew my eyes were sparkling with triumph, could feel the smile curl my lips.

“Good girl,” Pudge congratulated as I went into the hallway toward the study. He had been auditing the whole from his hiding place outside the door. I dashed off a polite note, and had Pudge take it up to the Manor. He was back within the hour, to tell me Mrs. Butte thought it would be better if the children returned at once to the Manor. Within five minutes more, one of Menrod’s lesser vehicles was at the door to collect them.

“My niece and nephew are remaining with their grandmother for the present. You may tell Mrs. Butte so, as she will want to inform his lordship when he returns. Good night.”

“Yes, Miss Harris,” the servant answered respectfully. All Menrod’s servants are well behaved, but there was an expression of startled incredulity on the young man’s face at my daring.

We had two uninterrupted days of Gwen and Ralph’s company. It was long enough to convince me Gwen was a sly, self-willed girl, possessed of a wide streak of charm, which she could turn on at will to get her own way. Any wish we had to deny her was met with the statement that Uncle Menrod let her do it, or have it, depending on the situation.