somehow has more import than merely the counting of the hours. Was this more imaginative speculation? Perhaps; on the other hand it could be my detective's brain working—a part of myself that had always stood me in good stead.
One door remained on our left. It was open; light and warmth poured out. Mary stopped in her tracks right in front of me, so abruptly that had I been walking more quickly I would have bumped into her. She turned around, an appalled expression on her face, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, miss! I forgot that other name you told me."
"Fremont," I whispered back, "Fremont Jones." I felt like saying not to worry, she would do fine, but somehow it didn't seem my place to be giving encouragement. Instead I paid attention to my own posture, stretching my spine tall and straight, shoulders well back, lifting my chin.
Mary went through the library door. She stood properly to one side and announced, "Miss Fremont Jones to see you, Mrs. Jones."
Augusta Simmons Jones received me from her seat in a chair by the fire. She did rise to greet me. She did not so much as extend her hand.
So this was how it would be: I'd get no respect as the daughter of this house, not unless my father were present looking on. From the corner of my eye I saw little Mary flee and I couldn't blame her.
Augusta looked me up and down, her head tilted a bit to one side as if I were an item being appraised, and she was dubious about the purchase. Abruptly she said:
"So you're insisting on that, are you? Fremont Jones. Well, I suppose it suits you better than Caroline, which after all is a very feminine name."
Not hello, how are you, how nice to know you survived that terrible experience, and oh yes, I'm so glad you came all the way across the country to see your father, that's a fine thing for a daughter to do. None of that, oh no.
With such a beginning, I certainly wouldn't wait to be invited to sit. I chose the wing chair on the other side of the fireplace, where I too could enjoy the warmth. She hadn't greeted me properly, so I did not greet her at all. Nor did I look at her as I walked over and sat down, automatically careful of the Turkish prayer rug in front of the hearth, as it was inclined to slip.
When I felt entirely settled and ready I topped Augusta's ungracious remark with one of my own, couched in the polite tones of casual conversation:
"This has been my favorite room in the house since Mother died."
"It's your father's favorite," Augusta responded. "It's more Leonard's room than any other in the house, which is why I spend so much time here. I feel closest to him in this room."
Touche.
She had not changed the library much; I was glad of that. Of course it is rather hard to change a room whose walls are all books, and whose chairs are made of leather. Its principal floor covering was the same large, gently worn, rose-colored Persian rug patterned with thousands of fantastical, faded flowers and vines I used to trace with a finger, back when I was little enough to get away with sitting on the floor.
"Sherry?" Augusta asked.
"Please."
She did not have to get up from her chair to pour. She had the decanter and glasses on the leather-topped drum table by her elbow. Also on the drum table was an item that was new, quite lovely, and I imagined had been expensive: one of Tiffany's lamps. The shade looked as if it had been made of giant, translucent moths' wings.
Here, in spite of Augusta's presence, there was less of the oppressive atmosphere I'd felt in the hall. I relaxed a bit but did not let down my guard; in the months before Father's marriage to her I'd learned it was never a good idea to let down one's guard with Augusta. She was quite a different woman when Father was not around—something I'd once tried to tell him, but of course he would not listen to me, and how can such a thing be proved?
She handed me a small crystal glass of sherry. Our eyes met, and she was the one who first looked away.
I tried to see
One door remained on our left. It was open; light and warmth poured out. Mary stopped in her tracks right in front of me, so abruptly that had I been walking more quickly I would have bumped into her. She turned around, an appalled expression on her face, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, miss! I forgot that other name you told me."
"Fremont," I whispered back, "Fremont Jones." I felt like saying not to worry, she would do fine, but somehow it didn't seem my place to be giving encouragement. Instead I paid attention to my own posture, stretching my spine tall and straight, shoulders well back, lifting my chin.
Mary went through the library door. She stood properly to one side and announced, "Miss Fremont Jones to see you, Mrs. Jones."
Augusta Simmons Jones received me from her seat in a chair by the fire. She did rise to greet me. She did not so much as extend her hand.
So this was how it would be: I'd get no respect as the daughter of this house, not unless my father were present looking on. From the corner of my eye I saw little Mary flee and I couldn't blame her.
Augusta looked me up and down, her head tilted a bit to one side as if I were an item being appraised, and she was dubious about the purchase. Abruptly she said:
"So you're insisting on that, are you? Fremont Jones. Well, I suppose it suits you better than Caroline, which after all is a very feminine name."
Not hello, how are you, how nice to know you survived that terrible experience, and oh yes, I'm so glad you came all the way across the country to see your father, that's a fine thing for a daughter to do. None of that, oh no.
With such a beginning, I certainly wouldn't wait to be invited to sit. I chose the wing chair on the other side of the fireplace, where I too could enjoy the warmth. She hadn't greeted me properly, so I did not greet her at all. Nor did I look at her as I walked over and sat down, automatically careful of the Turkish prayer rug in front of the hearth, as it was inclined to slip.
When I felt entirely settled and ready I topped Augusta's ungracious remark with one of my own, couched in the polite tones of casual conversation:
"This has been my favorite room in the house since Mother died."
"It's your father's favorite," Augusta responded. "It's more Leonard's room than any other in the house, which is why I spend so much time here. I feel closest to him in this room."
Touche.
She had not changed the library much; I was glad of that. Of course it is rather hard to change a room whose walls are all books, and whose chairs are made of leather. Its principal floor covering was the same large, gently worn, rose-colored Persian rug patterned with thousands of fantastical, faded flowers and vines I used to trace with a finger, back when I was little enough to get away with sitting on the floor.
"Sherry?" Augusta asked.
"Please."
She did not have to get up from her chair to pour. She had the decanter and glasses on the leather-topped drum table by her elbow. Also on the drum table was an item that was new, quite lovely, and I imagined had been expensive: one of Tiffany's lamps. The shade looked as if it had been made of giant, translucent moths' wings.
Here, in spite of Augusta's presence, there was less of the oppressive atmosphere I'd felt in the hall. I relaxed a bit but did not let down my guard; in the months before Father's marriage to her I'd learned it was never a good idea to let down one's guard with Augusta. She was quite a different woman when Father was not around—something I'd once tried to tell him, but of course he would not listen to me, and how can such a thing be proved?
She handed me a small crystal glass of sherry. Our eyes met, and she was the one who first looked away.
I tried to see
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