Auntie Mayhem by Mary Daheim Page B

four, and she’s expecting us. We want to be punctual. I dare you to tell her your name isn’t Renee, but Renie.”
    â€œWith her money, she can call me Beanie. Did you notice that Claire and Charles never mentioned Aunt Pet’s State of the Union message?”
    â€œEnglish reserve,” Judith declared, rapping twice on Aunt Pet’s door. “It would also have been in poor taste.”
    â€œSo was the speech,” Renie replied. “In a way. I mean, we’re strangers, and Walter and Arthur aren’t family. Neither is Mrs. Tichborne.”
    Judith rapped again. “But Arthur’s treated like a family member and I imagine Walter’s been steward here long enough that he qualifies, too. Mrs. Tichborne has worked even longer as housekeeper.”
    Dora opened the door a scant inch. She peered into the gallery, let out a sigh of relief, and admitted the cousins. “Forgive me, do. I thought you were Master Alex. Or Miss Nats. I was putting the kettle on.”
    If Aunt Pet had suffered any ill effects from her confrontation with the Karamzins, she gave no sign. Her chair had been turned sideways so that it no longer faced the windows. A small table sat in front of her, and two other chairs had been drawn up. Judith and Renie sat down.
    â€œTired, are you?” Aunt Pet’s assessment was astute. “Claire and Charles probably hauled you all over the county. Hope you weren’t bored to tears.”
    â€œOh, no,” Judith insisted. “It was wonderful. We saw some really fabulous sights.”
    â€œHa!” Aunt Pet was watching Dora fuss with the tea things. The cousins were watching Dora to make sure she didn’t start a fire. “What’s so fascinating about a pile of rubble like Glastonbury? Now if it were all of a piece, that would be different. But no, Henry VIII had to wreck the place, the greedy old fool.” She craned her neck to see what the maid was doing. “Dora! You can’t make the kettle boil by staring at it! Bring those scones and the cucumber and fish-paste sandwiches so we can start nibbling.”
    Dora obliged, fluttering to the table with a Royal Doulton plate that held a dozen finger sandwiches. The cousins werecareful to try the cucumber first. The scones were delivered next, in a covered wicker basket.
    â€œI talked Tichborne into making these,” Aunt Pet said, devouring one of the fish-paste concoctions. “Odd woman, that Hester. Can’t blame her in some ways. Still, a person can’t give in to tragedy. Might as well roll over and die.”
    Judith discovered that the cucumber sandwich was delicious. The filling included tomato, creamed cheese, and a dash of basil. “You’re referring to Mrs. Tichborne’s daughter?”
    Aunt Pet seemed to be studying her second sandwich. “Well—yes. Janet, her name was. Flighty creature. Not the least like her mother.”
    â€œShe disappeared?” Judith decided to dare eat the fish-paste. It was surprisingly tasty.
    Aunt Pet was still avoiding eye contact with her guests. “That was the story at the time. Not that girls don’t do that when they’re young and headstrong. Foolish—so foolish. They ruin their lives.” The tea kettle whistled, and Aunt Pet nodded with satisfaction. “Let it steep properly,” she commanded Dora. “You tend to hurry the leaves along.”
    â€œMrs. Tichborne is certainly a fine cook,” Renie noted, gobbling finger sandwiches of both varieties. “What happened to Mr. Tichborne?” The question was idly phrased, for Renie was now slathering butter on a warm scone.
    Aunt Pet wrinkled her faintly hooked nose. “He drank. Owned a pub, in fact, over in Taunton. Crude sort, probably beat Hester. Nobody mourned when he fell off a bridge and drowned. Years ago, of course. That was how we acquired Mrs. Tichborne. He’d mortaged the pub to the hilt, and she needed