name?"
"Mary."
"And do you have a last name, Mary?" I asked gently, with a smile.
"Mary Fowey."
Mary Fowey could scarcely stand still while she waited for me to undo the buttons all down the front of my coat. I was deliberately taking my time, not to torture poor Mary, but because Augusta had not seen fit to come into the hall and welcome me properly, with the warmth due a family member—or even a close friend. She should not have left me for her maid to handle like any old evening caller. I tried not to mind, for after all, I no more wanted to be there than Augusta wanted me, but still it did sting.
"Well, Mary," I said as I finished undoing the last few buttons, "perhaps you can tell me if Ralph and Myra Porter are still working here?"
Ralph and Myra between them had looked after this house inside and out for more than twenty years, and they had been very much in residence when I'd left for San Francisco four years earlier. They lived not in those little dormer rooms on the top floor but in their own suite of rooms on the third floor, convenient to the back stairs; my mother was the one who had made this change, declaring it was senseless for Ralph and Myra to squeeze themselves into those tiny rooms on the top floor when the whole rest of the house was occupied by only three people. I'd unthinkingly assumed the devoted servant couple would be there forever—or at least until they died. This house had always been their home as much as it was home to me and Mother and Father.
Mary ducked behind me to take my coat as it slipped off my shoulders. Her hands trembled, and were so cold I felt their chill through the fabric of my dress when she touched me briefly.
"No, Miss Jones," she said. "There's never been anybody here by that name since I come. Nobody here but me takin' care of the missus."
"I'll need my canes," I said quickly, as she was about to store them in the umbrella stand. "I'm sorry to hear about the Porters. They were here for a long time—and I expect sometimes you must wish you had some help."
At this Mary's eyes widened. "Anything you say, miss," she blurted, and then scurried off down the hall. She was several steps along before she thought to turn and say, "Mrs. Jones is in the library. If you'll just follow me."
Interesting, only the one girl for this big house. No wonder her hands were red. Even given that recently Augusta had been the only person living here, it was still a lot of work for one maid. I imagined she would just get through the rooms in a week and then have to start all over again the next, which must be grueling for her. Not to mention the cooking and laundry.
Well, there was going to be much more work starting tomorrow. I wondered if Augusta had thought of that. If she'd even told Mary.
I walked down the hall to the library at a steady pace, slowly accustoming myself to the formerly familiar surroundings. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but the house felt different.
The doors into the drawing room and dining room were closed, which made the hallway excessively dark. Of course the wainscoting and the doorframes were of dark wood, but the walls were cream plaster, and if those doors had been open the hallway would have been brighter, more welcoming. But that was not it entirely; there was a darkness here that had nothing to do with mere absence of light. Or with the fact that I could be virtually certain Augusta had taken no pains to create a welcoming atmosphere, because she did not wish to welcome me.
As Mary and I passed the tall-case clock in mid-hall I noticed it stood silent; I hoped it was not broken, but had been left unwound. I loved that clock, its face with the Roman numerals and pastel-painted faces of the sun and moon. What kind of person does not bother to wind a clock?
Aha, I might know the answer to that: a very nervous person, whose nerves are aggravated by the constant ticking and by the pendulum's unrelenting swing; a person for whom the passage of time
"Mary."
"And do you have a last name, Mary?" I asked gently, with a smile.
"Mary Fowey."
Mary Fowey could scarcely stand still while she waited for me to undo the buttons all down the front of my coat. I was deliberately taking my time, not to torture poor Mary, but because Augusta had not seen fit to come into the hall and welcome me properly, with the warmth due a family member—or even a close friend. She should not have left me for her maid to handle like any old evening caller. I tried not to mind, for after all, I no more wanted to be there than Augusta wanted me, but still it did sting.
"Well, Mary," I said as I finished undoing the last few buttons, "perhaps you can tell me if Ralph and Myra Porter are still working here?"
Ralph and Myra between them had looked after this house inside and out for more than twenty years, and they had been very much in residence when I'd left for San Francisco four years earlier. They lived not in those little dormer rooms on the top floor but in their own suite of rooms on the third floor, convenient to the back stairs; my mother was the one who had made this change, declaring it was senseless for Ralph and Myra to squeeze themselves into those tiny rooms on the top floor when the whole rest of the house was occupied by only three people. I'd unthinkingly assumed the devoted servant couple would be there forever—or at least until they died. This house had always been their home as much as it was home to me and Mother and Father.
Mary ducked behind me to take my coat as it slipped off my shoulders. Her hands trembled, and were so cold I felt their chill through the fabric of my dress when she touched me briefly.
"No, Miss Jones," she said. "There's never been anybody here by that name since I come. Nobody here but me takin' care of the missus."
"I'll need my canes," I said quickly, as she was about to store them in the umbrella stand. "I'm sorry to hear about the Porters. They were here for a long time—and I expect sometimes you must wish you had some help."
At this Mary's eyes widened. "Anything you say, miss," she blurted, and then scurried off down the hall. She was several steps along before she thought to turn and say, "Mrs. Jones is in the library. If you'll just follow me."
Interesting, only the one girl for this big house. No wonder her hands were red. Even given that recently Augusta had been the only person living here, it was still a lot of work for one maid. I imagined she would just get through the rooms in a week and then have to start all over again the next, which must be grueling for her. Not to mention the cooking and laundry.
Well, there was going to be much more work starting tomorrow. I wondered if Augusta had thought of that. If she'd even told Mary.
I walked down the hall to the library at a steady pace, slowly accustoming myself to the formerly familiar surroundings. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but the house felt different.
The doors into the drawing room and dining room were closed, which made the hallway excessively dark. Of course the wainscoting and the doorframes were of dark wood, but the walls were cream plaster, and if those doors had been open the hallway would have been brighter, more welcoming. But that was not it entirely; there was a darkness here that had nothing to do with mere absence of light. Or with the fact that I could be virtually certain Augusta had taken no pains to create a welcoming atmosphere, because she did not wish to welcome me.
As Mary and I passed the tall-case clock in mid-hall I noticed it stood silent; I hoped it was not broken, but had been left unwound. I loved that clock, its face with the Roman numerals and pastel-painted faces of the sun and moon. What kind of person does not bother to wind a clock?
Aha, I might know the answer to that: a very nervous person, whose nerves are aggravated by the constant ticking and by the pendulum's unrelenting swing; a person for whom the passage of time
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