Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (2 page)

 
          
 
She had not the slightest hint of any warmth
of welcome in her expression. In fact, her delicate features were a little set,
as if she were about to engage in some disagreeable duty. Her above-average
height, the meticulous arrangement of fair curls beneath a cap which was a
confection of black lace and mauve ribbons, the wide, almost majestic swell of
her mauve skirt, gave her a daunting air of presence.

 
          
 
As this newcomer reached the polished floor of
the hall, Saranna was thoroughly chilled by the level gaze
which
made mocking measurement of all her own shortcomings and defects of dress and
person. Across the frilled collar framing the other's pointed chin the younger girl
caught a glimpse of herself in a long wall mirror.

 
          
 
She was as rusty black as a storm-bedraggled
crow. Her features were a little too sharp, her cheekbones too clearly marked
under the taut puU of her skin on which there was a dusting of freckles, faded
only a little under the weaker suns of winter. She still had those shadows
under her eyes, painted by weary nights of nursing, the drain of sorrow for a
death
no courage nor
will of hers could hold at bay
for long. Saranna had thrown back her veil when she entered. Still only a
little of her smooth hair showed beneath the brim of her old bonnet, but
against the pallor of her skin, the dead black of her shabby, dowdy shawl and
dress, her hair showed its unfashionable red far too strongly. She had always
accepted that she was far from a beauty, but until this moment she had never
truly realized just how plain and drab a woman could appear in contrast to one
who could claim otherwise.

 
          
 
"Saranna?"
The other favored her with another up-and-down stare which catalogued every
frayed and rubbed spot, every too-often tied bonnet string, all which was
obviously wrong with Saranna. "It should be Aunt Saranna, should it
not?"

 
          
 
So this was Honora, Jethro's daughter. Yes, by
an odd quirk of fate she was aunt to this dazzling mistress of the house,
though Honora was her senior by several years.

 
          
 
Honora
laughed,
a
tinkling laugh like two ice crystals, one broken upon the other. "But, of
course, that is folly I
You
are so yoimg, a mere
child. We shall call you Saranna. I am Honora—"

 
          
 
She inclined her head regally. It was plain
that she was doing her duty, as she believed, graciously, to one far beneath
serious consideration.

 
          
 
Within Saranna, resentment warmed into a small
coal of hidden anger. But she must never, never let Honora know {that she
determined fiercely)—never let her know that either tongue or manner could
wound.

 
          
 
"You are early, we did not expect you to
land before evening," Honora swept on. "Mr. Sanders," for the
first time she addressed the lawyer, "how ill you must consider this house
is run that a carriage did not meet you. I beg you to forgive me—"

 
          
 
Her small white hand touched his stiff arm,
her features melted into a gentle smile. And Saranna (privately irritated at
the blindness of men) watched the stiff Mr. Sanders melt in turn, to wear an
almost approachable cast of countenance.

 
          
 
"It is of no consequence, Mrs. Whaley. I
believe we had what seamen term a favoring wind to bring us to port. And
Captain Fowke was most kind in sharing his carriage—“

 
          
 
"Captain Fowke?"

 
          
 
Saranna was sure she had witnessed a momentary
tightening of Honora's hps as she repeated that name. She could believe that
her hostess was not too pleased at hearing that "But—no, I can guess why
he did not wait—he must have pressing business with my father—the
New York
orders. You see, Mr. Sanders—" once
more her tinkling laugh sounded, not quite so brittlely this time, "I have
quite become a female of business. My father likes to use me as a sounding
board for his ideas. La, I can talk like any parrot about coffees, and costs,
and the like—not that my poor head gets any meaning from it. Now our thanks to
you, dear Mr. Sanders, for your journey to rescue this poor child—"

 
          
 
Inside Saranna bristled like a threatened cat
at the tone of that "poor child." She only wished she dared hiss as
emphatically as that same animal,

 
          
 
"Father," Honora was continuing,
"asked me to say he would wait upon you tomorrow morning. And, of course,
you and dear Mrs. Sanders must dine with me on Saturday. Mrs. Sanders must have
already received my note of invitation—"

 
          
 
Some time later Saranna eyed her reflection in
the mirror of a tall wardrobe.
Behind her lay a bedroom which
would better have housed a princess.
But it was given this time, she
thought with wry humor, to the real goosegirl, not to one of royal blood in
masquerade. Her own black figure blotted out some of the splendor about and
behind her.

 
          
 
She had laid aside her shawl and bonnet,
refused at once the attentions of the black maid who had been on her knees by
the sea chest struggling with its rope when Saranna entered. Now she was alone
and able to face facts.

 
          
 
Face facts I
An
expression she had heard so often on her mother's lips during these past years.
Mother might have had golden dreams of far travel, but she had never confused
those dreams with reality. Always she had insisted that one must think over any
situation carefully and calmly, not rush into things as Saranna was
temperamentally inclined to do.

 
          
 
Notwithstanding, Saranna had been rushed into
this change in her life from the hour Mr. Sanders had appeared without warning
two days after her mother's funeral, bearing the totally unexpected letter of
command from Jethro—that Jethro they had never heard of or from. She had been
overpowered then by the advice of Pastor Willis and his wife, grateful to the
Lord they served so firmly and humbly, that Saranna had found a protector and
not been left alone at seventeen to make her own way in the world. And, because
she had been so dazed with grief as to accept all their arguments then, now she
had to adjust to what lay before her.

 
          
 
This room was like Honora looking over her
shoulder, saying this is the way we live, and you have no proper place in this
house. Above the black of her dress, unrelieved because her chemisette-vestee
showing in the vee of her bodice was of the same doleful color (Mother would
hate to see her now, she had disliked her own mourning so much—saying one ought
to mourn in the heart and not be a living reminder to all of a private sorrow),
her skin had lost all natural coloring. Which made her hair, smoothly braided
and coiled at the back of her head, appear too fiery bright.

 
          
 
She had never worn a house cap, but she knew
from the study of the few fashion books Mother used in her dressmaking that all
ladies, old and young, married or single, were now supposed to do so. Now,
regarding the blaze of her hair, she decided there was only one improvement in
her appearance she could make in the short time before she had to face the
imposing household below.

 
          
 
Quickly Saranna unpacked her sewing box, found
a length of rather limp black lace. With energy (to have something to do with
her hands soothed her nerves) she began to sew. She was trying on the
improvised cap when there
came
a light tap at the
door.

 
          
 
At Saranna's invitation Honora appeared. In
the girl's estimate the dress her "niece" had worn at their first
meeting had been elaborate enough for a ball. But that paled into
insignificance beside the one which clothed her now. Delicate lavender of
half-mourning still, but the wide black lace of the skirt flounce filled the
doorway, billowed in graceful folds as Honora moved.

 
          
 
Her shoulders were bare under a shawl scarf of
the same black lace. And her fair hair, crimped, curled, carefully coaxed into
an affectation of loose locks, was only partly covered with a token widow's cap
of such fashion as to make

 
          
 
Saranna's improvisation equal in dowdiness to
the bonnet she had worn earlier.

 
          
 
"Where is Millie? She was to unpack for
you
— "

 
          
 
"I do not need her—" Saranna began.

 
          
 
"Nonsense, of course you need her. She's
a lazy slut. Don't you let her beg off from any task she's set. You must keep
an eye on every one of them or they'll shirk their work."

 
          
 
Honora advanced into the room without
invitation, seated herself on a chair from which Saranna snatched her bonnet
with only seconds to spare. Now the older girl came directly to the point:

 
          
 
"You are in full mourning, so I know you
do not wish to meet any company. Unfortunately I must entertain for my father
tonight—some of his business acquaintances. Therefore Millie will bring you a
tray here where you will not be disturbed."

 
          
 
Or disturb you, Saranna added to herself.
Honora was in half mourning, but it appeared she did not believe in seclusion
for herself.
Though Saranna had no intention of quarreling
with the suggestion.
She had no wish
now,
or
perhaps ever, to be included in the social life of this house.

 
          
 
"My father has returned early,"
Honora continued. "He desires you to join him in the library." Again
her tone underlined delicate astonishment that anyone would want Saranna's
company.

 
          
 
If Honora had come merely for the purpose of
delivering that message, she showed no signs of departing now that her errand
was completed. With a little smile which never reached her eyes she continued
to study the younger girl.

 
          
 
"My father was most amazed to receive
that letter from Mrs. Stowell—"

 
          
 
Saranna almost started in surprise. Mother had
written to Jethro? But why had she not told Saranna? She could guess her
mother's purpose—that she must have realized the seriousness of her illness and
lowered her pride to ask for her daughter what she would not for herself.

 
          
 
"He had had no contact with his family
for years,” Honora continued and then paused.

 
          
 
Saranna made no comment.

 
          
 
"However, he was very concerned when he
heard, after such a length of time, of his father's death and of the unhappy
straits in which you were left as a result of that."

 
          
 
Saranna stared directly back. "We were
not in dire want, Honora. Until my mother became ill we earned our
living."

 
          
 
"As village dressmakers—"

 
          
 
Saranna kept tight control of her temper. It
was never what Honora said, it was the insinuating way she said it.

 
          
 
"I helped her as much as I could. But I
was also studying. My mother had arranged for me to be a pupil teacher this
summer at the
Female
Academy
in
Boston
. Miss Seeton had accepted me."

 
          
 
Honora looked thoughtful. "So you are
bookish, Saranna. But a Bluestocking does not interest the gentlemen. However,
in your case—" She allowed her voice to drawl away and Saranna grasped
very well her meaning. For a portionless poor girl the question of any
gentleman's interest would hardly arise.