you’ll want to clear all the cottages of those tenants.” She managed a ladylike shudder of revulsion. “And there’re more deserving—”
“My great-aunt specifically requested me to keep on most of the present tenants.”
“She what?” Great-aunt Imelda was not pleased to learn of instructions beyond the grave. “My dear sister had suffered several strokes, you know,” and then she tapped her forehead, nodding her head significantly.
“This letter predates her illness,” I replied mendaciously.
“Well, this isn’t the time to discuss such delicate matters. And the men are not here to give you the benefit of their good advice. You’ll need it, my dear Irene. Ireland’s a man’s country!” She rose; I wasn’t quite sure if it was in deference to Ireland’s being a man’s country. There was, at any rate, a disagreeable hint of smugness in her expression as she glanced around her again, as if she were obliquely pleased by the spartan furnishings. “I can’t imagine why you’re not stopping at the Montrose. Such a nice hotel. So American.”
“That’s why we’re staying here,” Snow said.
As Mrs. Maginnis stomped to the door, her expression said plainly, “And that won’t be for long.”
Somehow Snow got between her great-great-aunt and the dining-room door. The woman undoubtedly had every intention of looking in. Foiled, she smiled sourly at me, and glanced up the stairs, which told her nothing.
“Until Sunday, then?”
“What time is Irish tea on Sunday?” asked Snow in her little-girl voice.
“Why, half four, of course.”
“Oh?” In that one surprised, haughty syllable, Snow managed to convey how unaccustomed she was to taking tea at such an unfashionable hour. Nor was the implication lost on our relative.
“You mustn’t go to too much trouble for our sake,” I felt obliged to say, but I would not be hypocritical and reprimand Snow. It had been too delicious of her.
“My husband will collect you, for sure you’d never find your way.” And Mrs. Robert Maginnis stalked down the lane.
“Well, ain’t she somethin’?” Snow said, glaring at the portly retreating figure. “She was dying of curiosity about the house. I wonder who she thinks ought to inherit?”
“One of the ‘more deserving’?” asked Simon. He altered his voice to a falsetto imitation of his great-great-aunt: ‘“And there’re cousins the same ages as yourselves’… Yeah.” He went bass again. “1 can just imagine. Do we have to, Mother?”
“Well, yes we do. We accepted, for one thing. For another, we might find out more than they want to.” I shook a warning finger at my daughter. “And you’d better watch your manners, missy. I gather that children are seen and not heard here.”
“I’ll behave. ‘if I can.”
“You know, she’s the second person who’s suggested that we’d be selling … I must get hold of Michael Noonan.” But he was out.
“You know something,” Snow said musingly as she sat on the steps and peered at me through the rail, “she didn’t take her gloves off, but I’ll just bet anything she’s got grabby little fat-fingered paws.”
“Oh, let’s not start
that
one again,” I begged, which reminded me that Shay Kerrigan’s long-fingered, well-shaped hands did not obey the twins’ much-vaunted criterion.
“Say, Mom, didn’t Kieron mention something about Aunt Irene keeping tabs on our kith and kin in the family Bible?”
“Yes, he did, Sim.”
“We might as well have the sheet to keep score on.” We found the family Bible readily enough in the little desk in the living room, complete with family-tree chart, branches, twigs, and leaves all neatly name-tagged. I could only hope that we weren’t going to meet all the relatives listed. Objectively, I could appreciate why Imelda Maginnis might be miffed with the property going out of the immediate family … the immediate Irish family.
“How was it Great-great Irene put it?” asked Snow.
“My great-aunt specifically requested me to keep on most of the present tenants.”
“She what?” Great-aunt Imelda was not pleased to learn of instructions beyond the grave. “My dear sister had suffered several strokes, you know,” and then she tapped her forehead, nodding her head significantly.
“This letter predates her illness,” I replied mendaciously.
“Well, this isn’t the time to discuss such delicate matters. And the men are not here to give you the benefit of their good advice. You’ll need it, my dear Irene. Ireland’s a man’s country!” She rose; I wasn’t quite sure if it was in deference to Ireland’s being a man’s country. There was, at any rate, a disagreeable hint of smugness in her expression as she glanced around her again, as if she were obliquely pleased by the spartan furnishings. “I can’t imagine why you’re not stopping at the Montrose. Such a nice hotel. So American.”
“That’s why we’re staying here,” Snow said.
As Mrs. Maginnis stomped to the door, her expression said plainly, “And that won’t be for long.”
Somehow Snow got between her great-great-aunt and the dining-room door. The woman undoubtedly had every intention of looking in. Foiled, she smiled sourly at me, and glanced up the stairs, which told her nothing.
“Until Sunday, then?”
“What time is Irish tea on Sunday?” asked Snow in her little-girl voice.
“Why, half four, of course.”
“Oh?” In that one surprised, haughty syllable, Snow managed to convey how unaccustomed she was to taking tea at such an unfashionable hour. Nor was the implication lost on our relative.
“You mustn’t go to too much trouble for our sake,” I felt obliged to say, but I would not be hypocritical and reprimand Snow. It had been too delicious of her.
“My husband will collect you, for sure you’d never find your way.” And Mrs. Robert Maginnis stalked down the lane.
“Well, ain’t she somethin’?” Snow said, glaring at the portly retreating figure. “She was dying of curiosity about the house. I wonder who she thinks ought to inherit?”
“One of the ‘more deserving’?” asked Simon. He altered his voice to a falsetto imitation of his great-great-aunt: ‘“And there’re cousins the same ages as yourselves’… Yeah.” He went bass again. “1 can just imagine. Do we have to, Mother?”
“Well, yes we do. We accepted, for one thing. For another, we might find out more than they want to.” I shook a warning finger at my daughter. “And you’d better watch your manners, missy. I gather that children are seen and not heard here.”
“I’ll behave. ‘if I can.”
“You know, she’s the second person who’s suggested that we’d be selling … I must get hold of Michael Noonan.” But he was out.
“You know something,” Snow said musingly as she sat on the steps and peered at me through the rail, “she didn’t take her gloves off, but I’ll just bet anything she’s got grabby little fat-fingered paws.”
“Oh, let’s not start
that
one again,” I begged, which reminded me that Shay Kerrigan’s long-fingered, well-shaped hands did not obey the twins’ much-vaunted criterion.
“Say, Mom, didn’t Kieron mention something about Aunt Irene keeping tabs on our kith and kin in the family Bible?”
“Yes, he did, Sim.”
“We might as well have the sheet to keep score on.” We found the family Bible readily enough in the little desk in the living room, complete with family-tree chart, branches, twigs, and leaves all neatly name-tagged. I could only hope that we weren’t going to meet all the relatives listed. Objectively, I could appreciate why Imelda Maginnis might be miffed with the property going out of the immediate family … the immediate Irish family.
“How was it Great-great Irene put it?” asked Snow.
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