section of the garden, set with low hedges and flower beds, among which weather-beaten wooden benches were scattered.
Antonia took my hand in hers and drew me toward the path leading to the fountain.
“The fountain was built in 1760 by an Italian architect called Zefferino Puccianti. It doesn’t look like much at the moment, but in the spring we’ll get the water going again. Then it will look very grand."
“I think it’s very grand already,” I said.
“Wait until you get closer.”
I thought how it had looked earlier, spied from my bedroom window. And I wondered if I could guess which was my window from here. Letting go of Antonia’s hand,
I turned and gazed up at the house, at the windows on the first floor of the west wing. There was a slight movement behind one window near the end. I could see a face. Someone was watching us.
“Antonia,” I said, “isn’t that Anthony up there?”
She let go of my hand and turned.
“What did you say?”
I pointed toward the window. The face had now disappeared.
“I thought I saw Anthony watching us.”
“Anthony? But, gracious child, I already told you that he has gone to Morpeth. He is with his solicitor. It must have been Johnson that you saw. Why don’t you wave?”
“There’s no one there now.”
"No. No, there isn’t.”
She turned and smiled at me.
"No one at all.”
CHAPTER 11
We dined that night at eight. It was a strange experience for me. All the time my father was alive, I had never dined with him or my mother, for they, of course, ate in the dining room downstairs—often with guests—while Arthur and I took our meals with my governess in the nursery. And after that there had been small, simple meals with Arthur and Mother, or a spartan supper in a vast hall with two hundred other women, or scraps snatched from the servants’ leftovers in the Lincotts’ house. I scarcely knew what table manners were, what knife and fork I ought to use and in what order, how to converse between mouthfuls. In the workhouse I had learned to bolt my food or starve. The taste of wine was wholly new to me, and at first unpleasant.
Antonia and Anthony put up with all this with the best grace. I caught an occasional sideways glance between them, and a little frown on Antonia’s face from time to time, but neither said anything. I watched Antonia when I could, as I had watched her all day long, trying to guess her age, for at fourteen it is far from easy to estimate the years of one’s seniors. She seemed younger than I remembered my mother, more beautiful, though less soft. Her mouth had a slight hardness and the expression in her eyes was at times brittle. Yet when she smiled, she became quite radiant, quite irresistible.
When it was time for pudding, a long-forgotten luxury, Cousin Anthony leaned across the table with a look of great seriousness.
“Charlotte,” he began, “you will be pleased to hear that I have instigated a search for your brother. My solicitors have engaged a London company called the Endicott Detection Bureau. They have offices in Charing Cross, and I am told they are the capital’s most reliable investigators. Mr. Melrose, my solicitor, sent a telegram to Endicott himself today, in order to retain his services and give him basic particulars. I have his reply here.”
He placed a little pair of half-moon spectacles on his nose, then took from his inside pocket a folded sheet of paper. When he had unfolded it, he held it at a little distance and cleared his throat.
“I shall insert the words omitted by Endicott for the purposes of economy. The telegram reads as follows: ‘Stephen Melrose, Esq. Sir: I beg to acknowledge your communication dated this morning, respecting a request by Sir Anthony Ayrton for the assistance of this bureau in tracing the whereabouts of his cousin Arthur Metcalf. In view of the urgency of the situation and your client’s generous offer to increase our normal fee, we should be most happy to undertake the
Antonia took my hand in hers and drew me toward the path leading to the fountain.
“The fountain was built in 1760 by an Italian architect called Zefferino Puccianti. It doesn’t look like much at the moment, but in the spring we’ll get the water going again. Then it will look very grand."
“I think it’s very grand already,” I said.
“Wait until you get closer.”
I thought how it had looked earlier, spied from my bedroom window. And I wondered if I could guess which was my window from here. Letting go of Antonia’s hand,
I turned and gazed up at the house, at the windows on the first floor of the west wing. There was a slight movement behind one window near the end. I could see a face. Someone was watching us.
“Antonia,” I said, “isn’t that Anthony up there?”
She let go of my hand and turned.
“What did you say?”
I pointed toward the window. The face had now disappeared.
“I thought I saw Anthony watching us.”
“Anthony? But, gracious child, I already told you that he has gone to Morpeth. He is with his solicitor. It must have been Johnson that you saw. Why don’t you wave?”
“There’s no one there now.”
"No. No, there isn’t.”
She turned and smiled at me.
"No one at all.”
CHAPTER 11
We dined that night at eight. It was a strange experience for me. All the time my father was alive, I had never dined with him or my mother, for they, of course, ate in the dining room downstairs—often with guests—while Arthur and I took our meals with my governess in the nursery. And after that there had been small, simple meals with Arthur and Mother, or a spartan supper in a vast hall with two hundred other women, or scraps snatched from the servants’ leftovers in the Lincotts’ house. I scarcely knew what table manners were, what knife and fork I ought to use and in what order, how to converse between mouthfuls. In the workhouse I had learned to bolt my food or starve. The taste of wine was wholly new to me, and at first unpleasant.
Antonia and Anthony put up with all this with the best grace. I caught an occasional sideways glance between them, and a little frown on Antonia’s face from time to time, but neither said anything. I watched Antonia when I could, as I had watched her all day long, trying to guess her age, for at fourteen it is far from easy to estimate the years of one’s seniors. She seemed younger than I remembered my mother, more beautiful, though less soft. Her mouth had a slight hardness and the expression in her eyes was at times brittle. Yet when she smiled, she became quite radiant, quite irresistible.
When it was time for pudding, a long-forgotten luxury, Cousin Anthony leaned across the table with a look of great seriousness.
“Charlotte,” he began, “you will be pleased to hear that I have instigated a search for your brother. My solicitors have engaged a London company called the Endicott Detection Bureau. They have offices in Charing Cross, and I am told they are the capital’s most reliable investigators. Mr. Melrose, my solicitor, sent a telegram to Endicott himself today, in order to retain his services and give him basic particulars. I have his reply here.”
He placed a little pair of half-moon spectacles on his nose, then took from his inside pocket a folded sheet of paper. When he had unfolded it, he held it at a little distance and cleared his throat.
“I shall insert the words omitted by Endicott for the purposes of economy. The telegram reads as follows: ‘Stephen Melrose, Esq. Sir: I beg to acknowledge your communication dated this morning, respecting a request by Sir Anthony Ayrton for the assistance of this bureau in tracing the whereabouts of his cousin Arthur Metcalf. In view of the urgency of the situation and your client’s generous offer to increase our normal fee, we should be most happy to undertake the
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