definitely irked. "Why
don't you both relax before supper . . . have a rest, or supervise the
unpacking, or something. I have a note to write. I will see you later," he
added, already starting for the house.
Whitney was torn between mortification over the way her
father was treating her aunt, and a nostalgic joy at being home again. As
they mounted the staircase, she let her gaze wander over the familiar old
house with its mellow, oak-panelled walls lined with English landscapes and
trained portraits of her ancestors. Her favorite painting, a lively hunt
scene in the cool morning mist, was in its place of honor on the balcony,
hanging between a pair of Chippendale sconces. Everything was the same, yet
different. There seemed to be three times as many servants as they'd ever
had before, and the house shone from the painstaking labor of many extra
hands. Every inch of parquet floor, every bit of panelled wall was glowing
with newly applied polish. The candleholders lining the hall were gleaming,
and the carpet beneath her feet was new.
In the doorway to her old bedroom, Whitney stopped and
caught her breath. Her room had been completely redone in her absence. She
smiled with pleasure as she looked at her bed, its canopy and coverlet of
ivory satin with threads of gold and pale orange. Matching draperies hung at
the windows. "Clarissa, doesn't it look wonderful?" she exclaimed, turning
to her maid. But the plump, gray-haired woman was busily directing the
footmen who were carrying in the trunks from the coaches. Whitney was too
excited to rest, so she helped Clarissa and a new maid with the unpacking.
By mealtime, she had bathed and changed clothes, and the
maids were nearly finished unpacking. Whitney went down the hallway to her
aunt's room. The large guest suite had not been redone and looked shabby in
comparison to other parts of the house. Whitney wanted to apologize to her
aunt for it, and for her father's rude reception, but Aunt Anne stopped her
with an understanding smile. "It doesn't matter, darling," she said. Linking
her arm through Whitney's, they went downstairs.
Her father was waiting for them in the dining room, and
Whitney vaguely noted that the chairs at the table had been reupholstered in
rose velvet to match the new draperies that were pulled back with heavy
tassels. Two footmen in immaculate uniforms were hovering near the
sideboard, and another was pushing in a silver cart laden with covered
dishes from the kitchen. "There seems to be a score of new servants in the
house."
Whitney remarked to her father as he politely seated
Anne at the table.
"We always needed them," he said brusquely. "The place
had begun to look run down."
It had been four years since anyone had spoken to her in
that tone, and Whitney stared at him in bewilderment. It was then, with the
bright light from the chandelier above the table illuminating him, that she
realized his hair had turned from black to gray in her absence, and that
deep crevices now marked his forehead and grooved the sides of his mouth and
eyes. He looked as if he had aged a decade in four years, she thought with a
sharp pang. "Why are you staring at me?" he said shortly. He had always been
this sharp with her in the old days, Whitney remembered sadly, but then he
had had reason to be. Now that she was home, however, she didn't want them
to fall into their old pattern of hostility. Softly she said, "I was
noticing that your hair has turned gray." -
"Is that so surprising?" he retorted, but with less edge
to his voice.
Very carefully, very deliberately, Whitney smiled at
him, and as she did so, it occurred to her that she couldn't remember ever
smiling at him before. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "If / didn't
give you gray hair white I was growing up, I'm amazed mere years could do
it."
Her father looked startled by her smiling reply, but he
unbent a bit. "Suppose you know your friend Emily got herself a
don't you both relax before supper . . . have a rest, or supervise the
unpacking, or something. I have a note to write. I will see you later," he
added, already starting for the house.
Whitney was torn between mortification over the way her
father was treating her aunt, and a nostalgic joy at being home again. As
they mounted the staircase, she let her gaze wander over the familiar old
house with its mellow, oak-panelled walls lined with English landscapes and
trained portraits of her ancestors. Her favorite painting, a lively hunt
scene in the cool morning mist, was in its place of honor on the balcony,
hanging between a pair of Chippendale sconces. Everything was the same, yet
different. There seemed to be three times as many servants as they'd ever
had before, and the house shone from the painstaking labor of many extra
hands. Every inch of parquet floor, every bit of panelled wall was glowing
with newly applied polish. The candleholders lining the hall were gleaming,
and the carpet beneath her feet was new.
In the doorway to her old bedroom, Whitney stopped and
caught her breath. Her room had been completely redone in her absence. She
smiled with pleasure as she looked at her bed, its canopy and coverlet of
ivory satin with threads of gold and pale orange. Matching draperies hung at
the windows. "Clarissa, doesn't it look wonderful?" she exclaimed, turning
to her maid. But the plump, gray-haired woman was busily directing the
footmen who were carrying in the trunks from the coaches. Whitney was too
excited to rest, so she helped Clarissa and a new maid with the unpacking.
By mealtime, she had bathed and changed clothes, and the
maids were nearly finished unpacking. Whitney went down the hallway to her
aunt's room. The large guest suite had not been redone and looked shabby in
comparison to other parts of the house. Whitney wanted to apologize to her
aunt for it, and for her father's rude reception, but Aunt Anne stopped her
with an understanding smile. "It doesn't matter, darling," she said. Linking
her arm through Whitney's, they went downstairs.
Her father was waiting for them in the dining room, and
Whitney vaguely noted that the chairs at the table had been reupholstered in
rose velvet to match the new draperies that were pulled back with heavy
tassels. Two footmen in immaculate uniforms were hovering near the
sideboard, and another was pushing in a silver cart laden with covered
dishes from the kitchen. "There seems to be a score of new servants in the
house."
Whitney remarked to her father as he politely seated
Anne at the table.
"We always needed them," he said brusquely. "The place
had begun to look run down."
It had been four years since anyone had spoken to her in
that tone, and Whitney stared at him in bewilderment. It was then, with the
bright light from the chandelier above the table illuminating him, that she
realized his hair had turned from black to gray in her absence, and that
deep crevices now marked his forehead and grooved the sides of his mouth and
eyes. He looked as if he had aged a decade in four years, she thought with a
sharp pang. "Why are you staring at me?" he said shortly. He had always been
this sharp with her in the old days, Whitney remembered sadly, but then he
had had reason to be. Now that she was home, however, she didn't want them
to fall into their old pattern of hostility. Softly she said, "I was
noticing that your hair has turned gray." -
"Is that so surprising?" he retorted, but with less edge
to his voice.
Very carefully, very deliberately, Whitney smiled at
him, and as she did so, it occurred to her that she couldn't remember ever
smiling at him before. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "If / didn't
give you gray hair white I was growing up, I'm amazed mere years could do
it."
Her father looked startled by her smiling reply, but he
unbent a bit. "Suppose you know your friend Emily got herself a
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