nodded. I understood that sort of frustration. I began on the square of wood slowly while Uncle Tully talked to his papers, trying to be careful of my dress, though I didn’t really care whether the dress had paint on it or not. I wished I didn’t care if Lane were angry with me or not.
“Mr. Moreau, would you be available Monday afternoon to take me to the Upper Village? I have not seen it yet.”
Lane painted on without answering.
“I hope you haven’t changed your mind about our agreement?” I prodded.
“You’re the one who seems changeable. One moment you’re having a conversation, the next you’re running out the door.”
I took a long breath, and soldiered on. “I was thinking perhaps Monday might be convenient, after a morning spent at the water-side. Monday, I believe, is the day my uncle sets aside for trying new things, and I was able to point out to him yesterday that seeing his fish swim in the canal might be interesting and could even inspire further improvements. Mr. Aldridge is eager to observe this, too, I believe. They were both quite … excited by the idea.”
Lane’s voice momentarily lost its slight inflection and became very proper. “Then I’d have Mr. Aldridge take you on a village tour, Miss Tulman. That would be more suitable, I’m sure. And of course, I’m certain you understand that I have my duties to attend to.”
It was a not-so-subtle slap. “Of course,” I said, eyes on my dragon scale. “That will be most suitable, indeed.”
“It is time!” shouted my uncle suddenly. I sighed and set down my brush. There were sixteen lines in my paint.
It was night, the sky was studded with stars, and I stood barefoot on the path beside the canal, the wardrobe of Marianna’s bedchamber before me on the bank. The water was bright blue in the starlight, a tropical blue, and though I walked on dirt I could hear the faint groan of floorboards beneath my feet. I approached the massive wardrobe. The carven faces covering its doors and edges were whispering to one another, soft creaks of discussion, and they were discussing me. Then the door on the left swung wide and I saw the black closet-like space behind it, while on the right the wooden eyes of an openmouthed nymph turned toward me. “Misssss,” she hissed slowly, and the mahogany face became that of Mary Brown.
“Lord, Miss, wake up!”
I sat bolt upright in Marianna’s bed, my nightgown twisted around my legs. The windows were dead dark, the wardrobe door stood a little way open, and Mary Brown’s eyes were two pools among freckles in the light of an upheld candle.
“You’ve a visitor, Miss! And Mrs. Jefferies says … oh, you’ll never be guessing who it is!” Mary’s nightcap shook as she bounced. “Mr. Babcock!”
In fifteen minutes I was dressed and hurrying down a corridor, wide-awake after a short argument with Mary about my boots. They’d been found in the bathtub, caked with drying mud, a circumstance Mary insisted that I had caused by straying off the path at the canal bank, when I knew perfectly well that I had done no such thing and had left them beside the bed in respectable condition. I could not fathom why Mary would not just admit that she had borrowed my shoes. I had, after all, borrowed her dress. But she was still annoyed as she hustled me down a hallway, barefoot, while I limped along, pinched in her too-tight boots. “Where are we going?” I whispered, speaking low only because the corridors were dark.
“Drawing room!” she said, turning confidently to the left to patter down a set of stairs I was unfamiliar with. I wondered just what else Mary had been doing with her days besides cleaning my room.
We entered the drawing room by the stairs at the back of it, the grand stairs in the room I had thought of as an entry hall on my first visit, but it was the only thing about the place I recognized. The dust was gone, and so were the dust sheets. The color of the walls was softened in
“Mr. Moreau, would you be available Monday afternoon to take me to the Upper Village? I have not seen it yet.”
Lane painted on without answering.
“I hope you haven’t changed your mind about our agreement?” I prodded.
“You’re the one who seems changeable. One moment you’re having a conversation, the next you’re running out the door.”
I took a long breath, and soldiered on. “I was thinking perhaps Monday might be convenient, after a morning spent at the water-side. Monday, I believe, is the day my uncle sets aside for trying new things, and I was able to point out to him yesterday that seeing his fish swim in the canal might be interesting and could even inspire further improvements. Mr. Aldridge is eager to observe this, too, I believe. They were both quite … excited by the idea.”
Lane’s voice momentarily lost its slight inflection and became very proper. “Then I’d have Mr. Aldridge take you on a village tour, Miss Tulman. That would be more suitable, I’m sure. And of course, I’m certain you understand that I have my duties to attend to.”
It was a not-so-subtle slap. “Of course,” I said, eyes on my dragon scale. “That will be most suitable, indeed.”
“It is time!” shouted my uncle suddenly. I sighed and set down my brush. There were sixteen lines in my paint.
It was night, the sky was studded with stars, and I stood barefoot on the path beside the canal, the wardrobe of Marianna’s bedchamber before me on the bank. The water was bright blue in the starlight, a tropical blue, and though I walked on dirt I could hear the faint groan of floorboards beneath my feet. I approached the massive wardrobe. The carven faces covering its doors and edges were whispering to one another, soft creaks of discussion, and they were discussing me. Then the door on the left swung wide and I saw the black closet-like space behind it, while on the right the wooden eyes of an openmouthed nymph turned toward me. “Misssss,” she hissed slowly, and the mahogany face became that of Mary Brown.
“Lord, Miss, wake up!”
I sat bolt upright in Marianna’s bed, my nightgown twisted around my legs. The windows were dead dark, the wardrobe door stood a little way open, and Mary Brown’s eyes were two pools among freckles in the light of an upheld candle.
“You’ve a visitor, Miss! And Mrs. Jefferies says … oh, you’ll never be guessing who it is!” Mary’s nightcap shook as she bounced. “Mr. Babcock!”
In fifteen minutes I was dressed and hurrying down a corridor, wide-awake after a short argument with Mary about my boots. They’d been found in the bathtub, caked with drying mud, a circumstance Mary insisted that I had caused by straying off the path at the canal bank, when I knew perfectly well that I had done no such thing and had left them beside the bed in respectable condition. I could not fathom why Mary would not just admit that she had borrowed my shoes. I had, after all, borrowed her dress. But she was still annoyed as she hustled me down a hallway, barefoot, while I limped along, pinched in her too-tight boots. “Where are we going?” I whispered, speaking low only because the corridors were dark.
“Drawing room!” she said, turning confidently to the left to patter down a set of stairs I was unfamiliar with. I wondered just what else Mary had been doing with her days besides cleaning my room.
We entered the drawing room by the stairs at the back of it, the grand stairs in the room I had thought of as an entry hall on my first visit, but it was the only thing about the place I recognized. The dust was gone, and so were the dust sheets. The color of the walls was softened in
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