Mark found he wasted more time chasing poachers than anything else.
It was Williams’ own fault, for if he had consulted with Crites as he should have done, he would have had at least an idea of where to begin. We had to use all our wits to confound him all the same. If nothing else, he was a hard worker. It was mainly on Friday nights that he annoyed us. Once we knew for sure what he was doing, Mark ceased to tail him on any nights but Friday. His duty on that special night of the week—Mark’s duty, I mean—was to find out who Wicklow was spying on, and if it were one of our men, to get into the house unseen and warn the man not to come to work. He was paid full wages as if he had carried his load. I wanted no trouble from my men at this critical stage.
Aiken’s place worked out very well. Williams did not consider the home of a nobleman, and one besides that was an inconvenient two miles’ walk from the village, as a spot to be watched very closely. We used it all through the autumn. Throughout that same autumn, Williams came on Wednesday evenings to the choir practice, usually walking home with Andrew and myself afterward. Our little à suivie flirtation continued apace.
Andrew had taken Wicklow down to show him the vault beneath the church, a detail which I learned quite by accident. The two of them were working up an organ recital for Christmas, to be given in the church as a concert, with Andrew practicing half a dozen simple tunes, the brunt of the music to be played by Williams. He was very musical—a nice lively style he had, which sounded better on the pianoforte in our saloon than on the organ, which required a more decorous pace.
He quite often slipped without noticing it into his own speech patterns, and used phrases too that spoke clearly of a good education. One Sunday after services he walked me to the door, talking of Andrew’s sermon, and chanced to say (the sermon was about “no room at the inn” as Christmas drew near), “I feel personally culpable when he speaks of charity, for I had to deny credit to the Morriseys just yesterday at the shop. But then I am only the caretaker. I have no authority. Owens’ orders were to restrict credit to one month’s wages.”
This may not sound a remarkable speech, but the wording of it, the accent, was so clearly genteel that I was surprised he had let himself slip so deeply into a respectable utterance.
What I replied was not about the high-flown speech, but something else entirely. “When do the Owenses plan to return? The visit was spoken of as for six weeks, was it not?”
“It has been extended. Mrs. Owens is not responding so quickly as they hoped.”
“You hear from them often, do you?”
“Every week.”
“When do you think they will be back?” This, of course, was a matter of deep interest to me, to know how long Williams would be around our necks.
“Not before spring, I believe,” was his answer. Had he mentioned an earlier date, I would have worried he knew something, but this long visit assured me he was as ignorant as on the day he came. “I am in no hurry for their return,” he added, with one of his flirting smiles. There was no miss to accompany the speech. I had somehow become “Mab” during those occasions when he was in our house—not by my invitation either. In the shop he continued to call me “Miss Anderson.” I never called him a thing but Mr. Williams.
“I hope they are not back before Christmas at any rate, as the whole town is on tiptoes to hear your recital.”
“It will be my first public performance. It is only the anticipation of your party afterward that steels me to go through with it at all.”
We had planned a small do after at the rectory for a few of our close friends. The inclusion of Mr. Williams in this party was felt to be not out of place, as he was the star performer of the show. “It is not to be a large party. No dancing, you know, due to Andrew’s position.”
“A very select
It was Williams’ own fault, for if he had consulted with Crites as he should have done, he would have had at least an idea of where to begin. We had to use all our wits to confound him all the same. If nothing else, he was a hard worker. It was mainly on Friday nights that he annoyed us. Once we knew for sure what he was doing, Mark ceased to tail him on any nights but Friday. His duty on that special night of the week—Mark’s duty, I mean—was to find out who Wicklow was spying on, and if it were one of our men, to get into the house unseen and warn the man not to come to work. He was paid full wages as if he had carried his load. I wanted no trouble from my men at this critical stage.
Aiken’s place worked out very well. Williams did not consider the home of a nobleman, and one besides that was an inconvenient two miles’ walk from the village, as a spot to be watched very closely. We used it all through the autumn. Throughout that same autumn, Williams came on Wednesday evenings to the choir practice, usually walking home with Andrew and myself afterward. Our little à suivie flirtation continued apace.
Andrew had taken Wicklow down to show him the vault beneath the church, a detail which I learned quite by accident. The two of them were working up an organ recital for Christmas, to be given in the church as a concert, with Andrew practicing half a dozen simple tunes, the brunt of the music to be played by Williams. He was very musical—a nice lively style he had, which sounded better on the pianoforte in our saloon than on the organ, which required a more decorous pace.
He quite often slipped without noticing it into his own speech patterns, and used phrases too that spoke clearly of a good education. One Sunday after services he walked me to the door, talking of Andrew’s sermon, and chanced to say (the sermon was about “no room at the inn” as Christmas drew near), “I feel personally culpable when he speaks of charity, for I had to deny credit to the Morriseys just yesterday at the shop. But then I am only the caretaker. I have no authority. Owens’ orders were to restrict credit to one month’s wages.”
This may not sound a remarkable speech, but the wording of it, the accent, was so clearly genteel that I was surprised he had let himself slip so deeply into a respectable utterance.
What I replied was not about the high-flown speech, but something else entirely. “When do the Owenses plan to return? The visit was spoken of as for six weeks, was it not?”
“It has been extended. Mrs. Owens is not responding so quickly as they hoped.”
“You hear from them often, do you?”
“Every week.”
“When do you think they will be back?” This, of course, was a matter of deep interest to me, to know how long Williams would be around our necks.
“Not before spring, I believe,” was his answer. Had he mentioned an earlier date, I would have worried he knew something, but this long visit assured me he was as ignorant as on the day he came. “I am in no hurry for their return,” he added, with one of his flirting smiles. There was no miss to accompany the speech. I had somehow become “Mab” during those occasions when he was in our house—not by my invitation either. In the shop he continued to call me “Miss Anderson.” I never called him a thing but Mr. Williams.
“I hope they are not back before Christmas at any rate, as the whole town is on tiptoes to hear your recital.”
“It will be my first public performance. It is only the anticipation of your party afterward that steels me to go through with it at all.”
We had planned a small do after at the rectory for a few of our close friends. The inclusion of Mr. Williams in this party was felt to be not out of place, as he was the star performer of the show. “It is not to be a large party. No dancing, you know, due to Andrew’s position.”
“A very select
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