Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (19 page)

 
          
 
"Mrs. Parton has to let us into the
sewing room now. She said you could use the machine. I'll bring my workbox.
There, that's the sewing room." She pointed to a door just beyond that of
the locked chamber of the four chests.

 
          
 
Two long steps brought Damaris to it and she
turned the handle. The knob gave. She nodded triumphantly back over her
shoulder at Saranna.

 
          
 
"Yes, it's open. I'm going to get my
workbox and tell Millie to bring yours and all those dresses and things. Then
you can start to show me—"

 
          
 
She was off before Saranna could
answer,
leaving the door she had tried a little ajar. The
older girl opened it wider to enter.

 
          
 
Sunday, until midafternoon, was indeed a day
of peace as Saranna had hoped it would be. They had driven in the carriage,
accompanied by Mrs. Parton (with Rufus, together with the very taciturn and
self-effacing Collis Parton, riding escort), to the church. Luckily, the
Partons did not try to share the family pew which she and Damaris enjoyed in
solitary splendor. Thus Saranna was relieved of her unwelcome admirer's
presence during the service.

 
          
 
Saranna studied the vicar with close
attention, more intent upon the personality of the man than his sermon. In
Sussex
, Pastor Willis had been a bulwark of aid to
those in distress. She wondered whether this far more worldly appearing man
might possibly be one in whom she could confide her doubts and forebodings. But
there was something about him which she could not warm up to, a certain
loftiness of manner, as if he felt himself in a superior station of life, so
assured of his own correct position that he would not welcome anything which
might tend to ruffle the even tenor of his ways.

 
          
 
Mr. Fowke occupied another large pew to her
left on the other side of the church, doubtless that belonging to his family.
She sighted on the walls various memorial tablets to both Fowkes and Whaleys,
already worn looking, though the church was less than a hundred years old.

 
          
 
When the service at last came to an end,
Saranna was eager to be on her way back to Tiensin. She had not been
unconscious of those curious glances flashed in her direction from beneath the
brims of bonnets and hats when she and Damans had taken their seats. And,
though no one ought property to think of one's clothes on such an occasion, she
had been painfully aware that hers were poorer even than those of the black
servants who sat in the galleries above. That she must make such a distressed
appearance on her first meeting with the neighborhood she found mortifying.

 
          
 
"Miss Stowell, Damaris—" It was Mr.
Fowke, tall beaver in hand, who awaited them as they edged their full skirts
out of the pew door, into the aisle. "A pleasant day—"

 
          
 
For a moment, Saranna could forget the poor
figure she made under the sharp eyes of those who were undoubtedly Honora's
acquaintances. It was a pleasant day. Though their drive here had been marred
for her because Rufus had urged his mount (except where the road was mercifully
too narrow) up level with the carriage, watching her slyly.
A
surveillance
she had refused to acknowledge in any form.

 
          
 
"Yes," she answered breathlessly
now, once more aware that a large portion of the feminine section of the
congregation were focused on their meeting, that ears were being strained to
catch the slightest word of this exchange. She had no doubt that Gerrad Fowke
was very much the subject of female speculation in the neighborhood. And there
must be more than a little disappointment that he had already fixed his
attentions on Honora.

 
          
 
"Pleasant enough for a short drive?"
he asked.

 
          
 
"Where?"
Damaris was not in the least shy and Saranna was very glad at that moment that
the younger girl did have the tendency to forwardness.

 
          
 
"Past Queen's Pleasure," he said.
"Even Mrs. Parton cannot demand that you be at the table before one, and I
promise to have you back safely again before that hour. Since she shares your
carriage, as I noticed, that will further delay her plans." He was smiling
and Saranna smiled uncertainly back.

 
          
 
With Mrs. Parton to accompany them, there
would certainly be no impropriety in such a small divergence from their path.
And she had to admit to herself that she wanted to go, to see the old Manor
Gerrad Fowke was slowly rescuing from the ruin into which his cousin had
plunged the estate.

           
 
"Oh—I want to!" Damaris caught
eagerly at Saranna's gloved hand. "We can, can't we?"

 
          
 
They had reached the door of the church and
Mr. Fowke bowed slightly to the housekeeper who, in her stiff, bottle-green
best, rustled up to join them.

 
          
 
"I have persuaded the young ladies to
make a short detour on their way home—past Queen's Pleasure. I will promise not
to delay your household arrangements for long. Perhaps your husband and your
son can carry on to Tiensin any message you wish to give the cook."

 
          
 
Mrs. Parton's small mouth opened as if she
were about to utter some protest. Did it close again because of Mr. Fowke's air
of calm assurance? Saranna thought it unfair that no female could deliver such
a quelling tone when she wished. At least no young female—

 
          
 
So it was Mr. Fowke who handed them into their
carriage. Saranna was well aware that Rufus had moved forward. But Gerrad
Fowke's complete indifference to young Parton's presence (as if Rufus were
indeed invisible) was something Rufus could not prevail against. She saw his
father put out a hand to his son's arm, draw him back. But there was a black
look on the younger man's face.

 
          
 
"Queen's Pleasure, Sam—" Mr. Fowke
gave the order easily and clearly to their coachman, mounted himself on a
powerful looking gray horse to rein in, keeping pace with the carriage as they
moved off at a sedate amble suitable for the day.

 
          
 
"The Manor has a romantic name—Queen's
Pleasure—" Saranna observed.

 
          
 
Damaris nodded vehemently. "That's
because a real Queen gave the land to one of her favorite ladies-in-waiting.
Later, that lady married one of the Fowkes, the one who built the first Manor
House. Of course, that has been added to a lot. The first house was kind of
small. But you can see Queen Anne's name carved over the door with a crowned
lion.
'Cause she was the Queen who gave it at her
pleasure."

 
          
 
When they pulled to a stop before the door,
Mr. Fowke, who had trotted his mount ahead once they turned into the driveway,
had dismounted and was waiting to hand them down from the carriage. Glancing up
beyond his shoulder Saranna did indeed see that deeply cut name of the royal
Anne and the weathered lion playing sentry.

 
          
 
Inside there was the smell of paint and
freshly sawed wood, but the stair leading to the second floor was untouched
save by years of careful polishing.
While the paneling about
the walls glowed with the same patina provided by age.

 
          
 
"Let me show you the drawing room. It is
my intention," Gerrad Fowke said to Saranna, "to retain as much of
the original fittings of this room, of
all the
house
at that matter, as I can. You see—the extra width of the wall provides window
seats—" He gestured. "This center block which was the original house
is united with two pavilions, one of which provides me with a library-office.
The summer veranda is on the north facing the garden—cooler during the hottest
weather. We Marylanders have a liking for our northern verandas, Miss
Stowell."

 
          
 
"Miss Saranna, Miss Damaris—" Mrs.
Parton had not advanced any farther into the room than just within the door.
"It is getting on nigh to
one o'clock
."

 
          
 
Saranna was a little surprised that the housekeeper
had had the audacity to interrupt them with a reminder of the time. Perhaps, in
spite of her chaperonage, they had been forward in coming here. The girl was
too ignorant herself of the manners of the countryside to be sure. Though
certainly Damaris had every right to accept such an invitation from her
stepmother's betrothed, and she, herself, saw no harm in what they had done.

 
          
 
For a moment there was a shadow of a frown on
Mr. Fowke's rugged face, as if he found Mrs. Parton overstepping the bounds of
her position. Then he shrugged and turned to the door.

 
          
 
"I am sorry that it is so late," he
said. "I would have liked you to see the rest of the house, all that is
being done to render it comfortable after long disuse. My cousin kept to one
room largely in the last years of his life. I do not think he even looked into
the others. Perhaps another time we can arrange that—"

 
          
 
Mrs. Parton, her object achieved, had turned
her back on them and was hurrying out. Damaris had wandered off to run her hand
along one of the window seats.

 
          
 
Mr. Fowke inclined his head closer to
Saranna's bevelled and out-of-fashion bonnet.

 
          
 
"Miss Stowell," his voice was so low
that it hardly escaped the pitch of a whisper. "Is it true that you know
young Parton—?"

 
          
 
He did not quite finish that sentence. It was
as if he feared he had taken a liberty as a gentleman should disdain to use.

 
          
 
Before she thought, Saranna blurted out the
truth.

 
          
 
"I know him only as Mrs. Parton's
son."

 
          
 
“Then he did not—"

 
          
 
"You know," Damaris was back at
their side, "this is the kind of house which ought to have a secret place
for treasure —like Grandfather's—only maybe not as much." She shook her
head determinedly, unable to admit that anything could ever eclipse the wonders
of Tiensin.

 
          
 
To her despair, Saranna had no chance to hear
the rest of Mr. Fowke's question. Did she dare to believe he was testing the
truth of what Honora had told him? And that, if Damaris had given them only a
moment or two more, she could have made plain her dilemma and perhaps even
gained enough of his sympathy to enlist his influence with his bride-to-be on
her behalf so that the threat of Rufus Parton's interest in her would be
lessened? If he had meant it so, they had no further chance to go into the
matter, for Damaris continued to chatter on about treasure and secrets until
they were once more in the carriage.

 
          
 
Then, at Mrs. Parton's quick order, the
carriage moved off, leaving Gerrad Fowke on his doorstep and hardly giving them
a chance to thank him for their small expedition away from Tiensin and all the
shadows which hung to obscure the future there.

 
          
 
"I like Mr. Fowke," Damaris
announced as they went along at a much smarter pace, suggesting that Sam was
properly influenced by the housekeeper to make their return as short a trip as
possible. "But I like Tiensin better than Queen's Pleasure. I think she
does, too. Tiensin's bigger and more important."

 
          
 
After lunch Saranna sought the parlor, which
appeared to be one of the areas forbidden to Rufus. She settled herself
thankfully
therein,
her mother's worn Bible in her
hands. For a while she thought of the time past, of the good days when Keturah
Stowell had not been driven by poverty to constant labor with her needle, and
there had been Bible stories on Sunday, the singing of hymns to the music of the
harpsichord which had been Saranna's grandmother's prized possession. Then
memories became too painful, and Saranna resolutely applied herself to blocking
away those which hurt the most

 
          
 
She had been staring idly, more intent upon
her own thoughts, at the massive twelve-panel teak screen which stood
half-concealing the door into the hall. It was at least seven feet high, and a
large portion of it was made up of blue and white porcelain tiles; those in the
upper
panels
pictured landscapes, the lower ones
contained figures. Between these were carved characters which Damaris had
informed her represented the Five Blessings—counting them out on her fingers as
she had recited them.