Winterwood (25 page)

“Flora! She gave you Sylvie. Didn’t that show she loved you?”

“It was only a pretense,” Flora said.

“Oh, come now—”

“I always knew it was a pretense. Crying for Great-aunt Tameson is only a pretense, too. It’s to make people believe she’s good when she’s not. She’s bad.”

“Flora!”

“Bad, bad, bad!” Flora shouted, and began to cry so violently that Lavinia was alarmed. The child was overtired, overexcited. The trip to London had been too much for her. Perhaps Eliza’s dismissal had been a shock for her, too. She must be quieted before she exhausted herself. The laudanum. This was the time for a drop in her hot milk before she was undressed and put to bed.

Lavinia rang the bell for Mary, and dispatched her for Flora’s milk. The laudanum bottle was on the top shelf of the cupboard where Charlotte had left it after its last administration to Flora,

She measured out the smallest quantity, corked the bottle and put it back. She intended to mention this remedy to Doctor Munro the next time he came, and ask if he approved of it.

It certainly worked wonders for Flora, for shortly after drinking it she was asleep, and there wasn’t a sound from her until morning, when she woke in an alert and energetic frame of mind. She wanted to dress immediately and go downstairs. She no longer intended to be an invalid. Hadn’t the doctor in London said that she would be walking in no time? So she would begin by having breakfast downstairs, only coming up at midmorning for her usual glass of milk and a rest if she was absolutely compelled to by exhaustion.

As it happened, this plan suited very well, for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy had arranged for the chimneys to be swept in readiness for Christmas, and Miss Flora’s could be done among the first while she was out of the way.

Everyone was up and out early that morning. Daniel had had his horse brought round immediately after breakfast, and had gone off with his steward on an inspection of his tenant farms. A little later Charlotte, in her immaculate gray riding habit, had ridden off with a groom. She had lost the groom somewhere, perhaps conveniently, and comeback in the company of Mr. Peate.

Flora, watching them through the window, seeing their animated conversation, Jonathon’s head tilted toward Charlotte and her looking as if she were hanging on his words, exclaimed indignantly, “How dare Mr. Peate ride Neptune? Who gave him permission? I shall tell Papa.”

“I don’t think I would do that, since your Mamma already knows.” And approves, thought Lavinia.

“Does he think everything belongs to him?” Flora demanded. But her attention was diverted by Mary tapping at the door of the yellow parlor and asking where Miss Flora would have the hot chocolate she always drank in the morning.

She hadn’t noticed Charlotte come up behind her, and started at the mistress’ voice.

“She will have it in her room as usual, Mary. She is not to miss her rest before luncheon.”

Flora scowled over her painting. She was not going to be lured by her mother’s affectionate concern.

“I am not tired, Mamma. I prefer to stay down here.”

The ride had brought a high color to Charlotte’s cheeks. Her eyes were overbright, and curiously dilated, as if her conversation with Jonathon had excited or disturbed her.

“You will do as I tell you, Flora. We want you perfectly well for Christmas. Don’t we, Jonathon?”

“Everyone must be bright and merry for Christmas,” said Jonathon with his great laugh. “The wassailing season, what?”

“Miss Hurst, do I have to do what
he
says?” Flora demanded, as Charlotte went toward the stairs and Jonathon sauntered after her, his head held arrogantly, as if he owned the house and everything in it.

“No, but you must do as your mamma says. Very well, you may finish your painting first, if it doesn’t take too long.”

A little later they were interrupted again by a man with a very sooty face who put his head in the door and asked if they had seen his boy.

“The little varmint’s vanished. I reckon he must be stuck up a flue. These be terrible treacherous chimbleys, all narrow bends. I know them, of old. And Willie’s grown that much in the last year, drat him. I should have brought Percy. I would have if he didn’t scare so bad. He comes out all a-tremble as if the chimbleys were full of ghosties. I declare I don’t know what I’ll make of Percy. Willie’s a clever lad, a real bold one. But he will grow, the little varmint.”

Flora was horrified. “Could that poor boy be stuck up a chimney? Would he starve there without anyone ever knowing?”

The sweep grinned, showing rotting teeth almost as black as his face.

“Reckon everyone would know, miss. Willie’s got lungs like a pair of bellows. He’d be hollering plenty. I expect he’s taken a wrong turning and come down in the wrong room, that’s all there is to it.”

As it happened, the sweep’s guess was substantially correct. Willie had come down in the wrong room, Flora’s. He had also decided, probably from sheer weariness, to curl up on the fur hearthrug beside the soot-spattered fireplace and go sound asleep.

He was only a very little boy. At first Flora screamed. He looked so black and ragged. Then, as Lavinia bent over him, she overcame her alarm and was full of pity.

“Oh, the poor little boy, Miss Hurst. He must have thought my hearthrug was soft and warm. Must we wake him up?”

“I’m afraid so, or his father will be angrier than ever.” Lavinia gently shook the bony shoulder, scarcely covered by the ragged shirt, and as black as the sooty face and head. The child didn’t stir. Even when she pulled him upright, his body merely sagged against her and slid to the floor again. She stared in surprise. If she hadn’t known it to be impossible, she would have thought the boy in a drunken stupor. Had he had access to a decanter of port or some such thing in any of the rooms? But it was highly unlikely so small a child—he looked no more than six years old—would have a taste for wine.

She went quickly to the bell rope.

“What’s the matter with him, Miss Hurst?” Flora asked in alarm. “Is he ill?”

“I think he must be. Or just quite worn out, poor baby.”

“Couldn’t we wash him and put him to bed?”

Flora was eager, and Lavinia had to say sharply that the little chimney sweep was not a new toy. He must be taken home by his father to whatever poor hovel they lived in. Certainly Flora might find an old jacket of Edward’s for him later.

Mary came hastening to answer the bell, and Lavinia sent her for Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was indifferent to the strange unconscious condition of the boy. “Lazy wretch,” she said, and showed concern only for the soot streaked all over the hearthrug. The sweep was sent for to carry the boy downstairs. He would revive in the warm kitchen with some good hot soup put into him.

By this time Flora regarded the boy as her special concern. She demanded to be told what happened to him, and where he lived. She intended to call on his family, if he had one apart from his callous father, who thought it natural to send so small a child burrowing up the terrifying tunnels of numberless chimneys. She would take warm clothes and nourishing soups and some of Edward’s old toys, if he could be persuaded to part with them.

“He should be playing with toys instead of climbing chimneys,” she said heatedly.

“I know, but that’s the way of the world,” said Lavinia. “You can’t cure it all by yourself.”

“Now I am rich I can do many many things.”

“You can drink your chocolate, to begin with. Oh, I see you have.” Lavinia picked up the empty glass. “When did you drink it?”

“But I didn’t, Miss Hurst. I haven’t touched it.”

“Then who has?” Lavinia frowned. “Why, I believe that bad boy must have.”

Flora clapped her hands delightedly.

“That’s what he did, and that’s why he fell asleep. I expect he was hungry and thirsty and tired. I’m
glad
he had my milk.”

“You’re only glad because you didn’t want it yourself. Never mind.” Secretly Lavinia was glad, too. “Mary can bring some more.”

She pulled the bell rope again, but when Mary came the chocolate was forgotten.

“Willie Jones can’t be woken, miss! Cook has slapped and pinched him, and his father’s terribly wild. He says he’s shamming, the lazy little varmint. But cook says he’s sick and they ought to get the doctor. And really, his head do fall sideways awful queer.”

“He must have Doctor Munro,” Flora declared. “Where’s Papa? I want to see Papa.”

By the time Daniel had returned from his morning inspection of the farms, Will Jones had carried his son off, still in that profound sleep. Daniel, however, on being told the story by Flora, agreed that Doctor Munro must call at the Jones’ cottage, and attend the boy. If he had been overcome by some strange sickness it must be diagnosed. But Daniel was inclined to the sweep’s belief that his son had turned mutinous, and was cleverly shamming. Flora must put the incident out of her mind. Later today Doctor Munro would report, and if the boy were really ill she could call on him tomorrow. But only if his disease was not infectious. Flora, in her delicate state, would be just the person to be vulnerable to a fever.

Luncheon was a silent meal. Jonathon had returned to his lodgings in the village, which was a rare enough thing for him to do, as he was spending more and more time with his “beloved cousin,” and Charlotte had sent a message that she had a headache and would be keeping to her room.

But halfway through luncheon she changed her mind and came down after all. She was suddenly standing in the doorway, her eyes sweeping over the people at luncheon, Daniel, Lavinia, Flora, Sir Timothy, and the quiet Mr. Bush, Then, without warning, she sank to the floor in a faint.

She recovered only when she lay on her bed, to which Daniel had carried her. Then she opened her eyes, the pupils so dilated that instead of having their habitual shining colorlessness they seemed black.

“You shouldn’t have attempted to come down,” Daniel was saying. Because of his alarm, his voice sounded harsh.

“Don’t scold me,” Charlotte said faintly. “I was only—lonely—up here.”

Her eyes went past Daniel to Lavinia. And it was then that Lavinia had the certain knowledge that Charlotte was afraid of something. Deadly afraid. She couldn’t bear to be alone even with Bertha in the next room. She was even seeking reassurance from Lavinia, whom she hated.

“I shall send for Doctor Munro,” Daniel was saying.

“No, no. I don’t need him. I’m not ill. I only—rode too far this morning. It was foolish of me. But Jonathon—persuaded me.” She raised herself on an elbow, her ashen face entreating. It seemed as if she might be afraid of shrewd old Doctor Munro, too, as if he might read her secrets. “See, I am better already. If I could have just a teaspoonful of brandy.” Tears suddenly ran down her cheeks. “I’m sorry to be so weak. I hate it so much.”

Daniel administered the brandy, and straightened himself. He had used no word of endearment, Lavinia had noticed. He had been kind, capable, but remote. It was as if, all at once, he had given up his unequal struggle with his wife’s temperament and vapors.

“I’ll ring for Bertha,” he said.

“No, let me stay with her,” Lavinia said. “Flora will be all right for a little while.”

“Will she?” Charlotte’s eyes were still dark with her secret thoughts.

“Perhaps Mr. Bush might take her and Edward for a walk,” Lavinia suggested. “She would enjoy that.”

“I’ll give orders,” said Daniel. “Thank you, Miss Hurst” He stooped briefly over Charlotte. “Try to rest, my dear.”

Lavinia hardly knew why she had offered to stay in the darkened room with the fragile figure lying so quietly in the bed. She had had the vaguely hopeful idea that alone with her Charlotte might talk. However, the minutes went by and there was no sound from the bed. Lavinia thought Charlotte had fallen asleep, but a little later she stirred and said that she was cold. Even when Lavinia had put another blanket over her, she shivered.

“It must be very cold to be dead.” The words were only a whisper. Afterwards Lavinia wondered if she had heard them correctly, although she was beginning to shiver herself.

F
LORA, EDWARD
AND MR.
Bush came back from their walk in high spirits. Flora’s cheeks were pink, and her hands full of the leaves and berries Mr. Bush had gathered for her.

“We went down to the lake, Miss Hurst. In the summer Mr. Bush says he will row us out to the island. Oh, and what do you think, Miss Hurst? Willie Jones has had to be put in the cottage hospital. Doctor Munro says he nearly died. He was poisoned!”

Lavinia, still oppressed by the afternoon in Charlotte’s darkened room, began to shiver again; she didn’t know why. Flora was only being melodramatic, as usual.

“He couldn’t have been poisoned. That’s a tale.”

“No, it isn’t, Miss Hurst. He’d been eating berries he’d picked from the hedges. Doctor Munro said it was a very dangerous habit. And I want to go and visit Willie in the hospital. May I, Miss Hurst?”

“Well—tomorrow, perhaps. Why?”

“Because I think his father is cruel to him, making him go up all those dark chimneys, and then starving him so that he has to eat poisonous berries. I want to tell him that I’m not cross with him for drinking my chocolate. And Edward has promised to give him some of his toys.”

“Only my old ones,” Edward said definitely.

“Oh, you’re a selfish pig. You have so many toys you could spare a new one.”

“I have not so many, and I’m not rich like you so that I can buy all I want.”

“Who told you I was rich?”

“Mamma did. She said it wasn’t fair of Great-aunt Tameson to leave you all her money, and she would have to see that it was made up to me in other ways.”

“Spoiled little beast,” said Flora. “Mamma’s pet! But you could give Willie some of your French soldiers.”

“What does a chimney sweep want with soldiers? He wouldn’t know how to play with them.”

“He would so. Anyway, I would show him.”

Their voices continued to wrangle as Lavinia sat silently, wondering about her vague alarm, and why she could not identify the thing that alarmed her.