Nooks & Crannies (13 page)

The large entrance doors opened and Phillips stepped in, his hair covered in white powder. “The motorcars are here. You're to take three of them, so there's plenty of room, no need to crowd in. Parents, please get your things.”

Still feeling lost, Tabitha couldn't even summon a particle of panic as she felt Pemberley run down her leg and scurry toward Mortimer Crum.

“It's bloody
snowing
,” observed Barnaby's father with a haughty look. “It shouldn't be snowing.” It was difficult to know who he blamed: the weather, the Countess, or the butler.

“A little early for snow,” Phillips agreed. “But not entirely unusual. The cars will get you back safely and far more quickly than the horses.” He bowed to Mr. Crum. “So you see, you'll get to ride in one of the Countess's fine motorcars after all, sir. Perhaps they'll let you press the horn or steer the wheel for a moment or two.”

Mr. Crum narrowed his eyes. “Are you being serious or cheeky?”

“I don't think a butler is allowed to be cheeky, dear,” Mrs. Crum answered.

“We had a cheeky butler once,” Frances said. “Father fired him immediately.”

“I assure you, sir, madam, and miss,” Phillips said, “a quality butler's cheek is never noticed.”

“So were you being cheeky or weren't you?” Mr. Crum demanded.

The Countess appeared in the foyer, smiling and looking like her captivating self. “Everyone ready for a cozy night?” She patted the stuffed hummingbird on Mrs. Crum's hat. “This fellow's already cozy as the grave, isn't he?”

“Ow!” Mr. Crum bellowed, shaking his leg and knocking down one of the knights, sending metal clattering, scattering, and echoing throughout the front hall. “What in God's name just
bit
me?” He jerked up his pant leg, and a small trickle of blood streamed down. “I've been
bitten
!”

Tabitha lowered her chin and watched her father clutch at the tiny wound, as though it could possibly hurt more than the loneliness she'd felt the majority of her life.

“My guess is that the Countess's knight ‘bit you,' sir,” Phillips said, raising one hand to his mouth in what was certainly mock concern. “The Countess's sincere apologies, I'm sure.”

Pemberley made it safely back into his pocket space, his little mouse heart beating against Tabitha's stomach.

“Well done, friend,” Tabitha said, her voice cracking. “They really never loved me at all, so well done.” She spoke under her breath so that nobody would hear, and though her words held strength, Tabitha's lips still quivered at the same pace as Pemberley's heartbeat. There was no sense of triumph or closure in having fixed her parents' dismissal as fact, or in solving the mystery of why they didn't love her. Instead her heart felt more permanently off-kilter than ever, unable to claim a suitable beat.

A whole child's beat.

Phillips made shooing motions at the parents, driving them toward the exit like a herd of unruly sheep. He pressed the back of Mrs. Trundle's mink, scooting her into the developing blizzard, where two bundled footmen were waiting to open the doors to the motorcars. The parents piled in, flakes of white whirling in headlights as the cars drove away. And when the door closed on the swirling, freezing, snow-filled air, every single electric light in the manor went out.

“Candles,” the Countess's panicked voice barked. “Get the candles!”

Footfalls scattered across the entrance hall, and someone bumped Tabitha on the shin. Jostling and murmured words of dismay filled the air.

“Quiet! Everyone just be quiet and stay where you are until we get some light in here!”

In the silence that followed, there was a sound of low creaking. Tabitha got her bearings and decided that the noise was coming from her front left. No, wait.

It was moving.

The creaking stopped near one of the portraits, where it turned into a soft moan. Tabitha had the distinct feeling that something in the dark was watching her. Perhaps, she thought, remembering the servant girl's words, the portrait was of a man named George. Perhaps his ghost was haunting the—

The lights flickered on again, and every child's eye was drawn to their hostess, who was standing in the middle of the room, ten-inch knife blade poised high in the air.

Horrible things happen every day, Tibbs. Every single day. For instance, I was having a perfectly lovely day off when I noticed a rather large beetle in my meat pie. Disgusting. But a rather poorer day for the beetle, I suppose.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Slippery Salesman

T
he Countess blinked hard and breathed heavily, her bosom practically bursting from the decorative lace on her dress. Turning a slow circle, she raised her eyes to the foyer chandelier and finally halted her movement facing Barnaby Trundle.

“Oh God, don't murder me,” he begged in a hollow whisper.

The knife lowered and disappeared back into the Countess's handbag. “My apologies, young Bartleby,” the Countess said, patting the frightened boy on the shoulder, ignoring his flinch.

“Barnaby,” he whimpered. “My name is Barnaby.”

She gave a hesitant laugh and licked her lips. “I was a bit startled, children. The boy bumped me and I . . . was startled. That's all.”

“Perfectly understandable, Grandmother,” Frances said, her voice shaking ever-so-slightly as she assessed the Countess's oversize reticule. “You've lived alone too long.”

“It's just the storm, messing about with the electric light,” Edward said. “Do you know that a single jolt of electricity could fry a man from toes to eyebrows? In fact—”

“No frying, Edward,” Viola quietly ordered.

His cheeks rose with a nervous grin. “Fair enough.”

The Countess nodded slowly. “That's right, Frances. I've lived alone too long. Just the snowstorm, nothing more. Phillips, see the children to the second parlor. Agnes, see that the imbecile cook I've hired brings in some hot cocoa, tea, and sweets. Those are things made with sugar, not salt, in case she needs clarification. The children and I will get to know one another a bit more, I think.”

“I'm the only one worth knowing,” Frances muttered.

Oliver reached over to give Tabitha's hand a single squeeze. “That went a bit beyond eccentric, wouldn't you say?” he whispered.

Tabitha stared between Oliver's hand and face, feeling a pleasant glow in her chest and a rush of . . . she wasn't sure what, but it was a very nice, warm feeling in the midst of a very cold, uncertain situation.

“We'd better do as she says,” he said, dropping her hand and offering a formal arm and clearing his throat. “ ‘Into the fray, together we go, out of the warmth and into the snow.' ” He blushed. “Or parlor, rather. That was from a poem we read in class. Some sort of soldier bit.”

She nodded her appreciation. “Into the fray,” she repeated.

Though not quite as grand as the one they'd seen during the tour, the second parlor held an impressive array of furniture and features. Paintings hung on the walls, most of them parlor scenes with people mingling, playing cards, and the like. By the time the children had settled themselves near the central table, a tea service and a delightful stack of goodies were displayed for the taking. A jittery-handed Agnes took the liberty of serving each child an individual assortment, while the Countess sampled tiny bites of each type of dessert and Phillips stood by the door, waiting to be needed.

“Oh, lovely. Sweets, Viola!” Edward took a bite of a dark dessert bar ribboned with chocolate. “Ah, excess,” he said happily.

The little room became cozy and warm with dancing light and heat from the hearth. At least it
would
have been cozy, were an uncertain tension not sandwiched within the atmosphere like a thick layer of slightly-off buttercream. And if Tabitha herself had not felt so very unanchored. She roiled with mixed feelings from the conversation with her parents and felt as though she were trying to keep steady upon an empty ship that was to be her new home.

Had yesterday's fog been a warning of her becoming quite lost in the world, just as the bittern had been a sign of her parents leaving?
Oh, pish-posh, you really must stop dwelling. It's not as though you were that poor fellow in the Pensive book, tied to the sea piling with high tide coming in.

That's right,
Pemberley scratched.
There are ghosts and oddities and lost heirs to be investigated. Chin up, you adore a good mystery!

Touché, dear partner,
she scratched back.
Onward with the evening.

As though agreeing with Tabitha, Pemberley wiggled his way out of her pocket to nibble on dropped sweet crumbs. He scurried beneath a claw-footed table and disappeared.

Frances stood and glared at the children until all side conversations halted. Only then did she turn to the Countess with a humbled expression. “Hollingsworth Hall is so very lovely,
Grandmother
, and I don't believe I've properly thanked you for the invitation,” she said loudly, offering an exaggerated curtsy. “My sincere gratitude is yours. I absolutely cannot wait to visit whenever you'd like. I'm sure we'll have a wonderful time once all of these . . . imposters are out of the manor.” She sat down, primly folding her hands in her lap.

Pemberley soon appeared, scooting along the edge of the cushion behind Frances with a rather guilty twitch about his whiskers.
Oh my,
Tabitha thought.
I've seen that look before.

Frances picked at her cookie. “Chocolate sprinkles,” she murmured.

“Where?” asked Edward, his eyes darting to everyone's plates. “I didn't get one with sprinkles.”

Tabitha felt the pressure of tiny claws as the mouse made his way up her leg and into the safety of her apron pocket. Horrified, she noticed Pemberley had left sprinkles on the side of Frances's plate in addition to the cookie itself.

“I suppose that's because you're not special like me, Edward.” Frances swept a finger along Pemberley's leavings, licked her fingers, then popped the cookie into her mouth. “Delicious. Now, let's talk about something else that's special. Hmm . . . I suggest ridiculous haircuts.” She smiled at Tabitha. “Yours looks like a lake bird attacked a woman while she chopped your hair with a kitchen knife,” she said, nodding to herself. “Anyone else agree?”

“We've all got our faults, Frances,” Edward said good-naturedly, reaching for another non-sprinkled cookie. “As I'm sure Granny”—he winked at the Countess—“will find out by tomorrow if she hasn't already. Tabitha's poorly dressed, I'm too fat, Viola's too concerned with charitable nonsense, Oliver here has little in the way of personality—just so far, old chap, I'm sure there's more to you in there somewhere—and as for you, Frances . . . well, I didn't want to say anything, but I believe your eyes are a good half-inch too close together. Poor breeding, I'd say, if there wasn't the chance that you were related to Her Ladyship.”

The Countess watched the exchange, chewing with a thoughtful expression before spitting a bite of walnut fancy into a napkin. “Too much flour. Phillips, I do believe Mary's been left in the dining hall, poor thing. Bring her in here, will you?”

The butler wrinkled his nose. “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

Her gaze sank to his feet, and the Countess inhaled sharply. “Phillips, why are you wearing
brown
shoes with your uniform?” Her lips fell into a slight pout. “I went to a considerable amount of trouble asking one of the servants to shine up your black ones.”

Phillips cleared his throat and shuffled a bit. “That's a lovely thing to do, Your Ladyship, but the servant seems to have kept them. I haven't a clue where they are.”

Looking extremely put out, the Countess touched her sapphire and straightened her posture. “Well, do find them or I'll have no choice but to think you don't really care. And if that's the case, Phillips,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “maybe I'll . . .” She noticed the children watching her. Barnaby Trundle's eyes were glued to her handbag. “Well, as it is, you look improper, like a man from the vortex of filth from which you came. Sprang out of there like a diseased cat, didn't you? It all turned out, though. We've both done well for ourselves, I daresay. I'm all for rising above one's station.” She walked forward and patted him on the cheek.

Phillips stumbled back a step, his lip twitching incessantly as he left the room. Tabitha wondered exactly which “vortex of filth” he had come from.

“Now,” the Countess said, turning to the children with open arms. “Which one of you is the key to keeping my fortune, I wonder?”

“Pardon, but don't you mean
passing down
your fortune?” Tabitha asked.