When I related to Mrs. Malloy what had transpired at the séance, one thing became clear: someone, for whatever dubious reason, wanted to confirm Betty’s belief that Mr. Gallagher had been murdered. The real Madam LaGrange might not have produced Nigel at all, let alone have him play so effectively on Betty’s emotions; therefore the switch. We agreed not to say anything to the Hopkinses for the time being. Better, Mrs. Malloy and I decided, to let the devious plot unfold.
Upon our return to the house, she immediately phoned the real Madam LaGrange and got her voice mail. Not thinking it wise to leave a message that might result in Madam’s phoning back and talking with one of the Hopkinses, Mrs. Malloy told me she would ring back the next morning.
She and I also talked about Miss Pierce: my visit to the Dower House and her arrival at Cragstone following the séance. Was there anything to Mrs. Malloy’s suggestion that Val might have had mercenary reasons for keeping in touch with the old lady over the years and then had jumped at the chance to move in with her? A practical move, Mrs. M had pointed out, if the old lady’s gratitude was demonstrated by making Val her sole heir: ousting the brother who had bunked off to Ireland or possibly Scotland, made an unfortunate marriage, and forgotten all about the great-aunt. But was there an inheritance worth bothering about? The fact that Lady Fiona had not taken up residence at the Dower House merely suggested an unwillingness to turn out an elderly person who might have nowhere else to go. It was far too big a leap to assume that a grateful Mr. Gallagher had persuaded his wife to gift the Dower House to his devoted former nanny.
I was proud of having introduced this caveat. It was good to know I had not succumbed to unkindness as a result of petty and completely unfounded jealousy toward the beautiful woman who had stood that afternoon with my husband in a tableau that excluded everyone else present, clinging to his hands, gazing deeply into his eyes. What else should be expected from two people who come unexpectedly upon each other after a long interval of time? Our vicar would be proud of me. His wife might go so far as to offer me the lead in her next play, The Merry Wives of Chitterton Fells.
The rest of the evening was such that Ben and I were never alone until we came upstairs, at which time we were occupied with the necessary unpacking. I whisked into the bathroom, not to avoid conversation but because I like concentrated time with my teeth. It is a source of some pride to me that I have never had a cavity, something most women in their thirties cannot claim. Val must be about my age, I thought, as I hung up the dainty hand towel. Whether she looked younger might be in the eye of the one doing the beholding. The mirror informed me that I could shed a few years by unplaiting my hair and shaking it loose down my back. True, in the morning I’d look as though I had escaped from an attic, but so what? Then again, maybe what Ben needed at this time was a wife with whom he could converse without visible distraction. There had to be so much he was aching to tell me: what he had thought of the séance, how it felt to be reunited with Tom, his impression of Betty, and what he was planning for the tea tomorrow and the catering for Thursday.
I left my hair in its plait and smoothed the demure collar of my nightgown before leaving the bathroom and making my way to the four-poster bed where Ben awaited me under the covers.
“Sleepy, darling?” I asked, settling back against the comfy down pillows.
“Yes, but not too tired to talk.” His hand reached for mine but instantly let it go, as he lay in a straight line on his back, arms at his side, eyes on the ceiling.
I resisted the urge to rearrange him like a piece of furniture that needed to be set at an angle. Instead, I switched off my bedside lamp and watched him subside into shadow. Nice, I told myself: peaceful contentment at the end of a long day. No need to talk. Everything that had occurred since our arrival at Cragstone House could wait till morning to be discussed. Of course he must be tired, after the early start and the drive to Yorkshire.
“How was Mrs. Malloy’s reunion with her sister?” he asked, across the great divide that can happen in beds designed for families of six.
“Interesting.”
“In what way?” Ben inquired of the ceiling.
“We met Mr. Archibald Scrimshank. He looks like an Archibald. Melody had some pertinent things to say about him and his relationship with the Gallaghers.” I went on to explain, speaking faster as the feeling increased that he was only half listening. When I petered out, it was several moments before he answered. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
“Do the sisters resemble each other?”
So much for depicting Mr. Scrimshank as the pin-striped villain of the piece and exciting Ben’s interest in ways to prove him guilty of embezzlement and murder.
“Looking at Melody was like catching Mrs. Malloy on the hop without any makeup or hair dye. I felt I ought to apologize and back out the door, promising not to breathe a word to anyone that I’d seen her naked.”
Another silence, during which Ben compressed his arms even closer to his sides. I waited for one of us to start humming as the faux Madam LaGrange had done earlier. When that didn’t happen, I brought up the visit to the Dower House. Finally, in a giddy attempt at providing him with a clearer visual image of the scene, I mentioned Val’s arrival.
“She’d brighten the dullest room, wouldn’t she?” I said.
“You think?”
“Oh, yes! I don’t know when I’ve met anyone so lovely.” Now I was the one making a confidant of the ceiling.
“Ellie…”
“You must have been stunned to see her walk into the hall this afternoon.” It was said at last. Now he would explain what she had or had not meant to him once upon a time. I would pose gentle questions and receive all the right answers. I would confess to having felt just the tiniest bit threatened until Mrs. Malloy had talked sense into me on the drive to see Melody. He would take me in his arms and tell me tenderly that I was the only woman he had ever loved, and the bed would shrink to its proper size with only room for the two of us.
That was what should have happened. Instead, his response increased the distance between us.
“She was someone I knew.”
“And?”
“It was a surprise to see her walk in.”
“You didn’t know that she had a great-aunt living in this part of the world?”
“Ellie.” He reached again for my hand and this time held on to it. “There’s a lot I didn’t know about Valeria Pierce. We crossed paths… Can we leave it at that for the time being?”
“Absolutely.”
“No probing questions? No digging up the past?”
“You were ships passing in the night.” I squeezed his hand, to let him know I understood, before turning over and pressing my quivering lips against the pillow. So silly to react in such a way! But why was he reluctant to talk about the woman if meeting her again had not reawakened regrets for what might have been? I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with Ben lying beside me like a block of wood and unanswerable questions hammering away in my head. But misery provides its own stupor, and I found myself dragged down into a bog that suffocated thought.
No unhappy dreams disturbed my slumber. I awoke to sunlight blasting through the windows, bouncing on and off the furniture and spray-painting the walls with gold. Mother Nature is not always the most sensitive of souls, and at first I recoiled. Let the birds chirp their little hearts out, let the sky be the color of bluebells, I would not be coerced into a more cheerful frame of mind. I would burrow deep into my Slough of Despond, put a pillow over my face, and refuse to set foot out of bed. But then pride had to go and rear its ugly head. Ben was already up. Did I really want the entire household, of which Val seemed to be an integral part, to know I was sulking? My mind said it didn’t matter. The rest of me collaborated in getting out from under the covers. Despicable, how we can turn against ourselves at crucial moments.
But once up I felt marginally better. It was a relief that Ben had stolen a march on me and did not have to be faced immediately. A steaming hot shower further improved matters. Indeed, I found myself wondering if I hadn’t blown our bedtime chat out of all proportion. So he hadn’t wanted to talk about Val. What man would want to rehash a past relationship with his wife? Maybe she had dumped him in a way he found embarrassing to remember, or he was the one who had broken things off and he still felt somewhat guilty. By the time I had finished coiling my hair into its chignon, I was convinced I had upset myself over nothing. It also came to me that Val reminded me of Bridie O’Donnell, the girl in my class at school whose dark curls and blue eyes had made me feel so hopelessly inferior.
I drifted downstairs renewed in spirit. On hearing voices emanating from the far end of the hall, I went through the open kitchen door to find a beehive of activity. Ben was making toast and Mrs. Malloy was handing around cups of coffee. Ariel was jabbering about not wanting to go to church. Betty, wearing a green polished cotton suit two sizes too big for her, was insisting that Ariel was going, like it or lump it. Tom, in yesterday’s country squire’s outfit, seemed to be working on being invisible. Nobody mentioned the séance.
Smiles here and there wafted my way as I sat down at the large table in the center of the room. A coffee cup and plate of toast magically appeared in front of me, followed by a butter dish and marmalade pot.
“How are you this morning?” Ben asked, his face a breath away from mine. The world righted itself completely.
“Awake, which you know is amazing, since I’m not a morning person.” I hoped he’d read between the lines and realize I was telling him I now saw things more clearly. His hand touched my hair and Val’s specter drifted away to the funeral heap of what might have been but wasn’t.
The kitchen, despite its being in need of refurbishing, was meant for cheerful occupancy. In time, I thought without a pang, the present-day Val would bring new life to its old-world charm with new cabinets, countertops, and appliances. The floor perhaps she would leave; I liked the honey-colored stone. It would be good to find a modern replica of the large country sink and 1920s cooker, but my opinion was not what counted. Chance had given the Hopkinses their decorator, a friend who only a few short months before had been a stranger to them both. A happy outcome among neighbors.
Regrettably, Ariel was not happy. Her face was marred by the fiercest of scowls as she stood with her hands on her hips, squaring off at her stepmother. “If I have to go to church, why can’t it be to St. Cuthbert’s? Their service is shorter.”
“Because it’s Church of England and we’re Catholic?” Betty looked ready to sling a slice of toast at anyone who moved.
“Then why have their vicar for tea?”
“You know the reason. Mr. Hardcastle has an old clergyman friend staying with him who remembers Cragstone House fondly and wants to see it one more time before he kicks the bucket. Tom”-rounding on him-“say something to your daughter or I’ll run screaming from this house.”
“Ariel-”
“Oh, please!” Betty screeched. “Not in that wimpy voice!”
“Aren’t we a lovely family?” The wretched child flung her arms wide and beamed a smile around the room. While I looked at Ben, hoping for inspiration as to what to say, Mrs. Malloy, disporting herself in emerald taffeta this morning and wearing more than her usual amount of rouge and incandescent eye shadow, announced that she had sometimes rather fancied becoming a Roman Catholic.
“Trouble is, me doctor advised against it. Bad for the knees, he said, all that bobbing up and down in the pews. A shame, really, because I’ve always liked their views on Bingo. Protestants have never taken to it the same way. To be fair, there’s nothing in the Bible that says anything about it one way or another.” She returned to pouring coffee.
“Ariel.” Tom made another attempt at being the heavy-handed father. “Go upstairs this minute and wash your hair. You can’t go to church looking like that.”
“Why?”
“It’s”-he struggled to come up with a word-“greasy. I don’t know why nothing is ever done about it.”
“Meaning I’m supposed to introduce her to a bottle of shampoo, tell her what it does, and point the way to the nearest tap?” Betty grew a full inch with rage.
“No.” Tom hastily retrieved the look he had darted at her. “But other girls her age don’t go around looking like she does.”
“If I do wash my hair,” said Ariel smugly, “I’ll be too late for church.”
“Suit yourself.” Betty marched toward the hall door with Tom following at a snail’s pace behind. “Anyone else want to come?” she asked belatedly and, receiving responses in the negative, she and Tom departed.
“I think having afternoon tea with two vicars is enough spirituality for me on any given Sunday,” Ben confided, into the hush that followed.
“We’ll go twice next week.” I buttered another slice of toast.
“I tried making that phone call just now-you know the one I mean, Mrs. H-and again got no reply.” Mrs. Malloy winked at me before skewering Ariel with a neon-lidded look. “You, missy, has to be one of the rudest children I’ve ever laid eyes on. Was it me in charge, you’d spend the rest of the day in your room, tied to the frigging bedpost.”
Before Ariel could respond, a door to the left of the pantry opened and a woman emerged, carrying a bucket and mop. She looked to be in her late twenties: slim, with chin-length mousy hair and a tight-lipped nondescript face. Her floral apron was faded, her shoes serviceable lace-ups, her gaze indifferent.
“I thought the kitchen would be clear by now,” she said, to no one in particular. “But then I’m not used to coming on Sundays. I guess I can get started somewhere else. Makes me no mind.”
“Please don’t let us upset your routine,” I said quickly, and Ben agreed that we would instantly get out from underfoot.
“I’m guessing you’re Mavis.” Mrs. M eyed her in a comradely sort of way. “I’m Roxie Malloy from the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. I’m staying here with Mr. and Mrs. H, who are cousins of the Hopkinses.”
“Is that right?”
Ben and I smiled and said yes.
“The way things has worked out,” Mrs. M continued, “you and me’ll be working together for the best part of this week. You won’t find me interfering.”
Did she have her fingers crossed behind her back? Mavis, still holding the bucket and mop, was not moved to reply, let alone register any noticeable interest.
“Mrs. Cake seems to think we’ll get on like a house afire.”
“Is that so?”
“Mr. H, who’s a proper chef, will be doing the cooking for her while she’s laid up. A real shame, her taking that fall downstairs.”
“Wasn’t it?” Mavis walked over to the sink, to stand with her back to us while turning on the tap and sticking the bucket under it. A gurgle, a sputter, and then a full rush of water put up a barrier of sound that Ariel ignored.
“How’s your little boy?” she swallowed a mouthful of toast to ask.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just wondering. I think it’s sad you can’t bring him to work with you.”
“Yes, well, that’s not on, is it?”
“What’s his name?”
“Eddie.” Mavis turned off the tap. The bucket was full. “So do I start in here or don’t I?”
The rest of us cleared out of the kitchen in a swoop, to stand in the hall and ponder our immediate future. Ben said he would go and have a word with Mrs. Cake, whom he had seen earlier hobbling into the sitting room next to the conservatory. I would have to delay talking to her in an attempt to discover what she could tell us about the Gallaghers. Ariel wandered away, hopefully to go upstairs and wash her hair. Mrs. M, after remarking that Mavis was a rare ray of sunshine who had cheered her up no end, headed upstairs to give herself a manicure.
I found the phone and rang Ben’s parents to see how the children were doing and spoke to all three in turn. It was lovely hearing their little voices, and great to know they were having such a wonderful time with Grandma and Grandpa. Feeling dial-happy, I tried my own number in hope of getting Freddy and asking if all was well with him and Tobias, but the voice mail came on instead. Either he was at Abigail’s or still in bed. I was thinking of following Mrs. Malloy’s example and doing my nails on the off chance that one of the vicars would be of the courtly hand-kissing sort when Ariel materialized beside me, still with hair needing shampoo, to ask if I would like to go exploring.
“Where?” It was another lovely day and I enjoyed a walk.
“Here in the house. Would you like to see the west wing?”
“Very much.” Indeed, I thrilled to the prospect of taking on the role of intrepid governess venturing into murky chambers haunted by history.
“It’s the part of the house that dates back to Elizabethan times.”
“So Madam LaGrange, as Nigel, made mention.”
“You can get to it only from inside on the upper floors. It’s separated on ground level by the exterior arched passageway constructed at the time of the Georgian addition.” Ariel was in her best tour-guide mode. “There’s an outside door, but nobody ever uses it,” she explained, while leading me along the gallery past the portraits on the wall, including the one of Lady Fiona as a young woman. “Mrs. Cake says that door has never been locked for as long as she can remember. If there’s a key, no one knows where it is. Isn’t it fun to realize that anyone could break in at any time?”
“I prefer the idea of a new lock.”
“So does Dad, but Betty’s dead set against it. She’s hoping Lady Fiona will break in to retrieve some vital piece of evidence that would prove she murdered her husband. What did you think of the séance? Dad and Betty won’t talk about it.”
“I wonder why?”
“Didn’t Madam LaGrange do a super job?”
“Marvelous.”
“You’d think Betty would stay grateful instead of going on about my hair.”
“It could do with a wash.” I followed her around a corner and up a short flight of steps.
“Ellie, you’re supposed to be unraveling the mystery of who’s been pulling the spook stunts.”
“Someone who’s staked Betty out, either because she’s the most susceptible or on account of a grudge against her?”
“Maybe. I thought we were going to be a team.”
“Are you worried or just out to amuse yourself?”
“I told you: it’s like being in a book. Last night made a really good chapter. But I wrote that one, so it really doesn’t count in getting us to the revealing conclusion. Why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Because I haven’t had time to think.”
“We are now entering the west wing.” Ariel opened a door at the end of a short shadowy passage. “Careful, we go down a couple of steps. Hold on to me if you like; I’ll find the light switch. Oh, good! Here it is. Okay?”
“Fine,” I said, appreciative of her solicitude. We were in a wainscoted hall, vast enough to have been used in bygone days as a ballroom. In addition to the electric wall sconces, mullioned windows brought sunlight flooding in like golden waterfalls rippling across the time-polished floor. The furniture was limited to an armoire taking up one corner, which looked as though it had been designed for the gentleman whose wife insisted he hang up his suit of armor before getting into bed, and a couple of thronelike chairs with tapestry seats. Easy to picture Sir Walter Raleigh sitting in one of them, ruminating on whether or not to take his cloak to the dry cleaners-the one he no longer felt quite so sentimental about Queen Bess having walked on, now that she had decided to chop off his head. It was not a particularly grim thought. Indeed, there was nothing in the space to re-create the feeling of gloom I had experienced on entering Cragstone House yesterday before Betty turned on the hall lights. There was no rotting bride’s veil of cobwebs, no reek of despoiled antiquity, no stealthy scratching behind the paneling to suggest an infestation of rodents. Even so, had I in truth been a Victorian heroine intent upon meeting up with unkindly fate in the form of a skeleton wearing only the remnants of his ruff, I would have preferred to do so somewhere else-the British museum being my first choice. They have curators eager for that sort of thing to happen, who would insist on having first dibs on Mr. Bones Jangles and palm me off with a nice cup of tea.
“Why are you looking nervous?” Ariel wanted to know.
“I didn’t like the way that door groaned shut behind us.”
“It’s a very heavy door.” Did she say that with unnecessary relish?
“Good for keeping drafts out.” I shivered nevertheless.
“I expect we could scream our heads off and no one would ever hear.”
“Probably. Did you hear that creaking sound?”
“No. When Betty’s being particularly hateful I think about her being stuck up here and wailing uselessly for someone to come and rescue her. Oh, don’t look so shocked!” She danced down the center of the hall and spun back to face me. “I wouldn’t lure her here and run away. There wouldn’t be any point. There’s no lock on the door. Besides, well… I just wouldn’t.”
“I should hope not.”
“You don’t think she’s vile, do you?”
“No one’s perfect.”
Ariel gave me one of her disgusted looks before flouncing down onto one of the throne chairs. “Do you want to know why she won’t let Mavis bring her little boy with her? It’s because she thinks anyone who can afford to drive to work should be able to pay for child care.”
“What about his being a difficult child?”
“That too.” Ariel sat, rhythmically kicking the legs of her chair. “But it’s more about Mavis having a car. Anyone would think it was a Rolls-Royce instead of an old rattletrap. Now we’re rich, Betty wants everyone else to be poor. And she’s wrong about Mavis’s husband sitting around all day being lazy. Mrs. Cake says the firm he worked for moved to Sheffield and he decided to set up a home office on his own. He’s a locksmith. And the kid gets sick if he has to drive around too long in the van. Eddie.” Ariel turned the name around in her mouth. “Imagine being a little boy with a name like that these days!”
“Perhaps he’s named for his father,” I suggested, “or another family member.”
“Like Valeria-rhymes-with-malaria. After you and Mrs. Malloy escaped yesterday afternoon, I asked her how she got stuck with that name, and she said it was after her great-aunt, Nanny Pierce. Wouldn’t that be enough to make her want to bump the old lady off?”
“What a bloodthirsty child you are.” I moved to inspect a portion of wainscoting. “Old-fashioned names are popular again. My older daughter Abbey’s full name is Abigail, after a long-ago relative whose portrait hangs above our fireplace.”
“I remember. She looked quite nice.”
“So does Valeria.” I studied a section of the carved oak trim that divided the wainscoting into squares.
“Yes, but to get stuck with a name that sounds like a disease! No wonder she shortened it.”
“Anyone would say she’s beautiful.”
“Not Dad; I asked him and he said he hadn’t noticed. Maybe she only lets very special people call her Valeria, the way Ben did. Probably they were really good friends at one time.” Ariel stopped kicking the legs of her chair. “But you know, Ellie, I don’t think you should be upset about that or the way they were looking into each other’s eyes like they were drowning. It must have been the surprise. I think you’re every bit as lovely as she is, in a different way. But better safe than sorry.”
“Meaning?”
Ariel got up and came to stand beside me. “I’m not sure, really. I guess it’s that I don’t see why she has to be so friendly. Taking over the decorating like it’s her own house. Advising Betty on what clothes to wear. Maybe she likes to borrow husbands like they’re cups of sugar.”
I laughed because it made a good solid sound. “Mrs. Malloy borrowed her sister’s boyfriend, and it led to a forty-year rift.”
“So that’s what did it.” Ariel surprised me by not following up on this. “At least with Betty you know where you stand.”
“And quite possibly you’re not being fair to Val.”
“I suppose.” She gave one of her shrugs. “The trouble is that when I’m bad I’m very, very bad and when I’m good I’m still horrid.”
“Rubbish! You just need to be a little less hard on yourself and other people.” I reached out to touch her but she edged away to point a grubby fingernail at the carving I had been examining.
“Are these Tudor roses, Ellie?”
“Probably.”
“There’s an E above that doorway.” Ariel stalked ahead of me down the length of the room, and I admired the carving before asking what lay beyond.
“Rooms. They’re all empty, except for the one Nanny Pierce used before moving to the Dower House.”
“I wonder why she slept in this wing rather than the main house?”
“To keep her out of the way as much as possible? That would be my guess. I expect Lady Fiona found her a real pain. Always fussing over Mr. Gallagher like he was still her sweetie-weetie baby boykins. You won’t believe how nutty she was about him till I show you.”
“What exactly?”
“This.” Ariel stopped in the middle of a sizable hallway to push open a door and beckon me into a room with a bed, a narrow wardrobe, and a great deal of shelving filled with the paraphernalia of a boy’s childhood. Books, butterfly nets, magnets and magnifying glasses, microscopes and telescopes, several Noah’s arks, and a regiment of toy soldiers. It was impossible to take them all in at once. Each object lovingly, laboriously arranged: row upon row of what would now be desirable collectibles to the antique toy connoisseur. I sat down on the bed, the better to feast my eyes, and hastily jumped back up, having been poked by a sharp object that proved to be a guardsman with a bayonet. On the floor beside my foot I spotted another one, and next to it a miniature horse and rider.
Ariel watched me as I gathered them up. “Dad was up here last week fixing some of the doors because they stuck. I expect his banging about made things fall off the shelves. Don’t you think it’s creepy, Nanny Pierce keeping all this stuff in her room? And there’s more in what was her sitting room.”
“The question is, why didn’t she take them with her to the Dower House?”
“She didn’t move down there until after Mr. Gallagher went away. Mrs. Cake says Nanny wants him to find this room just as it’s always been when he comes back-apart from her photos of him, which she took with her. Can’t bear to go to sleep at night without kissing his little face a dozen times over.”
“Ariel.” I put the misplaced items back on a shelf. “Miss Pierce is a very old lady.”
“Okay, but whose fault is that? I’ll bet she was always weird, and Lady Fiona was thrilled to finally get away from her, even if it meant she has to be the one staying in a hotel. No moving in together, you notice. Now that you’ve met Nanny Pierce, don’t you think she could be one who’s been trying to frighten us away from Cragstone, either with Val’s help or on her own? That tottery business could be an act.”
“Ariel, a woman of over eighty is entitled to totter.”
“Come on, I’ll show you the other rooms up here.”
I looked at my watch. “Let’s do that another time. Your parents could be back from church by now and looking for you.”
“I keep telling you, Betty’s not my mother.”
There being no answer to this that would have gone down well, I made my way back to what I thought of as the ballroom with Ariel trailing behind. Would I now be given the silent treatment? It was a relief when we exited the west wing and the heavy door groaned shut behind us, blocking off the sense of unease. Was I yet another Madam LaGrange, I thought testily, dredging up impressions from past lives? And what had become of my oft-vouched enthusiasm for the foreboding?
“We’ll go down the back way.” Ariel scampered ahead of me through an archway and down a flight of linoleum-covered steps. “These were for the servants. They’re the ones Mrs. Cake fell down. Her bedroom is along there.” She stopped on a small landing branching off to our right. “Poor old thing, I really like her and her homemade toffee. I’m very keen on toffee. I wonder if Mrs. Malloy still has some of the ones she had in the car?”
“In her bedroom. She put the bag out as a decoration.” I wasn’t sure if Ariel had heard me; she had whisked ahead, a straggly-haired wraith in spectacles. Moments later our descent brought us to a second landing, this one with a narrow rectangle of window to our left.
“It overlooks the passageway separating the two parts of the house.” Ariel swiveled around on one foot to point. “If you squint, you’ll get a view of Mavis’s car and see what I mean about it being a rattletrap.”
I did see it-I’ve always been a good squinter-and I also got a partial view of the Dower House and someone walking away from it.
“It’s Ben.” Ariel peered over my shoulder, adding, just a little too quickly, “I expect he had an uncontrollable urge to bond with Nanny Pierce. Val probably isn’t even there; she’s been going for a lot of walks lately. Keeping in shape, I expect. Mrs. Cake says you don’t get a figure like that by sitting on it.”
“And right she is. Lead on, Macduff!” I followed her down the rest of the steps, determined that the one thing I would not exercise was my imagination. Ben could have gone to the Dower House for a variety of perfectly innocent reasons, including the wish to see Val. They were old friends. They had years to catch up on. Really, it was heartwarming to think of them chatting about the past. How they had danced the night away in each other’s arms, night after wretched night. I discovered I was grinding my teeth. This was not good. It might well lead to cavities, of which I had none and hoped Val had a great many. I wished Mrs. Malloy were with me so I could lay my head on her robust shoulder and weep copious tears down her taffeta bosom.
Blessed relief! There she was, in the passageway, when Ariel and I came to the door that had lost its key and welcomed burglars.
“A fine time I’ve had, Mrs. H, looking all over for you,” she announced, as Ariel faded away in the direction of the main house. “I want you to hear me recite the poem I’ve written for Melody.”
“That would be nice,” I said, hoping she would notice I sounded wan and would usher me indoors where I could sit on her knee and tell her I was being spiteful and petty again and ask if she knew of something I could take for it.
“Nice to hear you sound so encouraging, Mrs. H. Now hold on a minute, let me get posed just right.” She squared her shoulders, drew in her elbows, and clasped her hands over her middle. This not being quite what she was after, she made some adjustments. One hand went to her bosom and then down to her side. “Don’t rush me, Mrs. H!”
I thought of Mr. Gallagher’s parents, who had, according to Miss Pierce, doted on his teatime recitations. Perhaps my failure to get into the poetry mood was because there were no little sandwiches and fancy iced cakes on a table in the passageway. Despair tends to make me hungry; it had to be time for elevenses, if not for lunch. Sausages would be nice and perhaps some bubble and squeak. Ben made wonderful hubble-bubble, as we called it. Quite possibly it would be the thing I would miss most about him when he was gone.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him walking toward us, dark head bent, seemingly intent on counting every piece of gravel on the path.
“Here goes, then! Tell me if the words’ gas meter, or whatever they call it, is all right.” Mrs. Malloy cleared her throat before beginning:
“ ’Tis forty years since last we met,
And I am filled with deep regret,
That I didn H see your point of view,
Like an older sister’s meant to do.
But now it’s time to start again,
May lessons learned not be in vain.”
“Very poignant,” I said, with what I hoped was a noticeable glow of enthusiasm. Ben had looked up and seen us. He had a piece of paper in his hand, which he now waved.
“I’m not finished.” Mrs. Malloy rebuked me. “I did seven more verses. I got so carried away I forgot to give meself a manicure.”
“Then you’d better go in and do it before I rope you in to help with lunch.” Ben drew up in front of us and flashed her a smile. “Escape while there’s still time.”
“I don’t see as it would hurt Betty to get one meal. It’s not like she’s always been a lady of leisure. Too much time on the hands all of a sudden isn’t good for nobody. Probably bored out of her mind and picking holes in Tom and Ariel for something to do. But I’ll leave you two together,” said Mrs. M magnanimously, before teetering down the passageway on her high heels-different shoes from the ones she and Val had in common. I looked at Ben, seeing the flecks of gold in his eyes before he lowered his head, again concentrating on the gravel as he slid an arm around my shoulders and we walked toward the kitchen door.
“When I was talking to Mrs. Cake, she suggested I go down and ask Miss Pierce for her recipe for currant scones.” He folded the piece of paper and put it in his trouser pocket. “She said it’s a good one and the old lady would be pleased.”
“Thoughtful of Mrs. Cake to suggest it,” I told his shoes, “and nice of you to take her up on the idea. You’ve nothing to learn when it comes to making scones.”
“I thought it was my hubble-bubble you were particularly fond of.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Funny you should mention it. I was just pining for some.”
“Two hearts that beat as one.” His arm drew me closer. I should have brimmed over with happiness. I was happy. There had been a perfectly reasonable explanation for his visit to the Dower House.
“Will Miss Pierce and Val-Valeria-be at the tea?”
“Of course.” It was said lightly, but I felt I’d stepped on his toes. Had I sounded like the jealous wife in Master of Darkwood Manor? Would it not be wise to reflect that she had not lived happily ever after?