The Elsingham Portrait

Ten


She woke very early with the sound of cowbells sweetly discordant, and a very unmelodious voice raised in Covenanting hymns directly beneath her room. She stretched luxuriously. The bed was firm enough to give her support; the linen was sweet with lavender, which came to her nose in fragrant whiffs every time she moved. The windows in her room were small, with many tiny leaded panes. Ruffled white curtains moved in the gentle breeze from the open windows. The early sunlight flickered on them like flakes of gold.

Kathryn’s gaze slid lazily over the coverlet, a cheerful bright patchwork in blue and white; the floor, of oak polished to a satiny glow and covered with hand-woven blue rugs; a big old fashioned dresser with a starched white cloth on the top of it, and a heavy armoire, or cupboard, occupying most of one wall. A tiny round mirror hung above the dresser, so high that one would have to go on tiptoe to see one’s face. Kathryn’s lips quirked into a smile. She would be willing to bet that the owner of the voice singing doleful hymns had chosen that mirror. Trust a dour Scot to avoid the very appearance of vanity! Plain living and high thinking for you, my girl, she told herself; and then, more soberly, it’s what you’re used to, Kathryn Hendrix, so you’ll be right at home.

The words had a good ring. I’ve never really had a home, she thought, quite without self-pity, rather with a kind of self-discovery. Isn’t it strange I should feel so much at home in this English farmhouse, two hundred years before my birth? A little shiver of unease ran through her. Don’t get too attached to all this!

“Time I was up and about the business of earning my living.” In a library, too! Even if it was a multilingual hodge-podge, the choice and inheritance of an unworldly eighteenth century clergyman, it should be fascinating and absorbing. And rather a change from the flesh-pots of high society in London . . .

Kathryn sat up abruptly, not liking the direction her thoughts were taking. What folly to remember a pair of gray eyes warm with emotion, a golden head bent to hers, a deep voice saying, “You cannot deny that we do have—something for each other?”

Whatever they had, thought Kathryn crossly, it was Nadine and John who had it, not Kathryn. She got out of bed so quickly that she hurt her arm. It was then she realized that she was wearing a nightgown—too short, but very voluminous. She couldn’t remember putting it on last night—in fact, she couldn’t remember getting to bed at all. The managing Elspeth Cameron had probably managed that. And if she were the doleful singer, what had she thought of Nadine’s nighties? Giggling, Kathryn slipped out of bed and padded over to the dresser on bare feet. She pulled open the top drawer. Yes, there were Nadine’s seductive French wisps, a drift of sheer pastels, so light they seemed almost ready to float out of the drawer. Kathryn picked up a sea-foam green confection and held it to her chest over the heavy linen nightgown. She chuckled. If Glamor Magazine could see me now! She began to waltz slowly, singing under her breath, “In my sweet little Alice blue gown . . .”

“Sing before breakfast, you’ll cry before supper,” came a harsh voice from the doorway.

Kathryn whirled, snatching the pretty negligee away from her body. A short, heavy-set woman, whose black hair was pulled painfully away from her face into a tight bun at the nape of her thick neck, was standing just inside the opened door. She wore a black dress with a huge white apron over it. She came in without invitation and shut the door.

“You’ve no business out of bed in your bare feet, Missus. You’ll catch your death of cold, and be an added burden on them that has to take care of you. Surely you ken that on a working farm” (her accent made “wurrrkin’ fahrum” out of the phrase),”there’s no extra hands to care for idle folk.”

Well, thought Kathryn, drawing a long breath, if that doesn’t discourage fun and games, I don’t know what would! She walked slowly over to the bed, but sat on the side and looked directly into the beady black eyes of her challenger.

“I’m quite well enough to be up and doing,” she said quietly. “I shall not cause anyone any trouble.”

“Ye may tell that last to one who hasna seen your face and figure,” replied her tormentor tartly. “Or observed you dancing and singing in your nightshift.”

“Is singing forbidden on Bennet Farm?” Kathryn asked. “I was sure I heard someone belting out a very doleful hymn a few minutes ago.”

If she meant to discomfit the lady who was most likely to have been the performer, Kathryn failed of her purpose. The newcomer said dourly, “Hymns are a different matter, Missus, as any decent Christian creature should know. And I had already broken my fast.”

Well, thought Kathryn, I asked for it. Suddenly very thankful for the money in her reticule, Kathryn spoke with the poise of one who is paying his rent. “Are you the cook?”

“I am Elspeth Cameron, indeed, and I take care of the household while Mistress Bennet is absent. Which is most of the time,” added the cook, with what Kathryn perceived to be considerable relish. “She’s back and forth between the Manor and his lordship’s fine London dwelling. His lordship’s nurse, she was.”

Kathryn realized that she was no match for this battle-maid. Since she would have to live with the woman for several days, at least, until Bennet could get the portrait to the Manor and arrange to have Kathryn smuggled in, she had better keep the peace. She would also need help in bathing and dressing until her arm was completely healed. Kathryn took another look at the sour, disapproving face of Elspeth Cameron, and shivered. She simply couldn’t have those heavy hands on her body. She’d have to find a way to manage for herself. Perhaps—

“Is there a young girl in the neighborhood whom I can engage as a maid?”

The disapproving look deepened. “Is it an abigail you’ll be wanting, then, Missus? I doubt there’d be one in this vicinity would suit a fine leddy. Mostly they’re farmers’ daughters, more used to milkin’ and muckin’ out the barns than fussin’ with such stuff as that, yon,” and she jerked her head at the peignoir with a sniff.

“I see I shall have to find one myself,” Kathryn forced herself to speak calmly. “Thank you for coming up to waken me. I shall be down for my breakfast in half an hour.” She turned away and went to the wardrobe to find the clothing she had worn the previous day. After a minute she heard the door close.

It was all of half an hour before she was able to descend the stairs. She had given herself a hasty, one-handed sponge bath. It had been very awkward getting into the unfamiliar clothing, and she had deliberately left off some of the more esoteric undergarments. Her hair had been easy: a few hard sweeps with the brush had sent it into an enchanting halo for the pale beautiful face. Kathryn felt no envy nor pride. It was Nadine’s face; she could admire it without self-adulation. Gathering her courage, Kathryn went downstairs.

The farmhouse was very large, very comfortable, and very clean. It would take a pretty rash grain of dust to invade Elspeth Cameron’s domain, thought Kathryn, following her nose to the kitchen. Well, if smell is any criterion, I’ll be the best fed American tourist in all of England.

The food was delicious, but Kathryn had trouble with some of it. The porridge was ambrosial—heavy with coarse brown sugar and cream that was as thick and yellow as custard. The poached eggs were a tender delight, and the strong dark tea (did everyone in England drink it this black?) put heart into her. But she couldn’t begin to cut the thick slice of ham one-handed, and she stared with dismay at the roast beef and the covered pie.

“Is there something wrong with the food?” challenged Elspeth.

“No,” answered Kathryn honestly, “I’ve never tasted anything as good. It’s just that I can’t cut the meat with one arm.”

“Och, then you’ll surely be needing help, like I said,” Elspeth nodded. “We can’t have you wastin’ good food. ‘Waste not, want not’ is my motto.”

“You can save it for my lunch,” said Kathryn weakly.

“Will you be able to cut it any easier then?” asked Elspeth.

“I shall tear it with my teeth,” said Kathryn calmly. “Now if you will tell me where to go to find a young woman who would be willing to come to help me, I’ll get out of your way.”

The pompous sentence had its effect. Elspeth said almost placatingly, “What-all would you be wantin’ from the girl? There’s none of them up to maidin’ a fine lady.”

“I shall need some help in dressing myself until my arm heals, which should be by next week,” Kathryn enunciated clearly. “Also in cutting my food, as you have remarked. And I shall need a young woman with enough skill to make me a few simple dresses to work in.”

Elspeth’s eyebrow rose. “That last would be a sensible proceeding. You really intend to seek for employment?”

“I am a qualified librarian and am also competent to teach children,” Kathryn retorted.

“¼Tis few of the gentry would have you to instruct their bairns,” Elspeth told her.

“And why not?” snapped Kathryn.

“Because of the very strange way you have of using the language,” explained Elspeth, smugly.

Since her own sentence had come out sounding like: “Becos o’ the vayahry sturrange way ye hae o’ usin’ the longwidge,” Kathryn found herself grinning, her good humor restored. “You and me both Elspeth,” she said. “We’re nothing but a pair of foreigners among the Sassenachs. Now give me the directions to find a suitable maid.”

*****



She thought, as she walked along a green lane in the fresh morning sunlight, that Elspeth could very easily have sent her on a wild-goose chase. The small black eyes had still been hostile as she gave directions. But eventually Kathryn came to a neat, white-painted gate hung between white posts, just as Elspeth had described. She followed a wide track toward a prosperous-looking farmhouse. She was already feeling too warm, since she had donned Bennet’s cloak and bonnet. She had decided not to wear the veil.

“They’ll all have to see me sooner or later,” she thought. “Better not to make a mystery. I’ll get a white mob cap and wear it all the time over this hair. Or would black be better?” There was an unpleasant feel to that idea. Where had she—oh! Donner’s white face closely encased in a black cap like a helmet. Well, she wouldn’t wear anything like that. Maybe she’d show these English something new in widow’s caps. Smiling faintly at that idea, she went, still following Elspeth’s instructions, around to the kitchen door at the rear of the building.

There was a cheerful sound of women’s voices and the clatter of pots. At her knock, one comfortable voice rose above the rest. “Hush now, girls, you’re like a treeful of starlings with your chatter!” and then, louder, “Come in, Sarah!”

Kathryn pushed open the door. All sound abruptly ceased. A fat motherly woman came toward her, wiping floury arms on her apron. “I’m sorry, I’m sure, ma’am. We were expecting our friend from Crofton—”

“I wish I were she,” said Kathryn. “I’m Kathryn Radcliffe, and I’m staying at Bennet Farm for a few weeks.”

“Please to come in, ma’am! Poll, dust off a chair for Mistress Radcliffe! This way, please—or perhaps you would prefer to sit in the parlor?” The farmer’s wife was flustered, but seemed genuinely hospitable.

“Thank you! This chair will be fine. You all sounded so happy as I come along. Please don’t let me interrupt!”

The cluster of pretty girls staring at Kathryn with avid interest now broke into a chorus of giggles, except for one slender miss with soft brown eyes. “Oh, hush up, you ninnies! Mother, can’t we offer Mistress Radcliffe something?”

That we can, Polly. Ma’am, would you fancy a cup o’ tea?”

“I’d love a glass of cold water,” confessed Kathryn. “The walk made me thirsty.”

At a glance from her mother, Polly ran to fetch it, and brought it carefully. The glass was sparkling clean and the water cool and clear. Kathryn sipped it slowly, trying to observe the girls without seeming to stare. There were five of them, all fresh-faced and clean and wholesome; the youngest possibly twelve or thirteen, the oldest, the one with brown eyes, probably seventeen or eighteen. They had been making bread and cookies, and the kitchen was full of mouth-watering odors.

All the women stood watching Kathryn, their faces smiling and friendly. Kathryn handed the empty glass to Brown Eyes. “You are Mistress Bradley, are you not? And these are your daughters?”

The buxom woman beamed at her brood. “Indeed ma’am, they are, every one, And a help to their mother, if I do say so as should not.”

“But you should,” smiled Kathryn. “Mrs. Cameron tells me they are the best behaved and most accomplished of all the young women in the district.”

“Did she, then?” marveled Mrs. Bradley, and the young girls went off into another spasm of giggling. She’s such a sour body, I’m surprised she spoke so civil.”

“She told me,” pursued Kathryn, “that all your daughters could cook and wash and iron, and that the eldest, Polly, was an accomplished seamstress as well.”

Polly’s pretty face became pink with pleasure.

“She said no less than the truth,” boasted the farmer’s wife. “Our Poll is a wonder!”

“Then would you,” coaxed Kathryn, “permit her to come to the Bennet Farm daily to help me? I have had an accident with my arm, and I’m still very awkward. Also,” she hurried on, afraid of a rebuff, “I need several neat, simple black dresses and caps to be made at once. I am,” she concluded, “recently widowed.”

This latter intelligence wiped all the smiles from their faces, and set them to murmuring condolences. Kathryn kept her eyes on the farmer’s wife. “Could you spare me Polly for just a week or two?” She turned to the girl. “If you would care to come?”

The brown eyes were sparkling with excitement. “I would care to come very much.”

Her mother appeared pleased but dubious. “She’s had no training to maid a lady, ma’am. Nor to make such fine stylish gowns as you would wish to wear—”

“Plain, simple and sensible,” corrected Kathryn firmly. “Suitable for a working widow.” She noted their surprise, and added rashly, “I am going to catalogue the books in the Vicar’s library. That is sure to be dusty work. No place for a fine, stylish dress,” she added with a smile.

Mrs. Bradley chuckled richly. “If you can find the shelves for the clutter, and locate the Vicar himself long enough to give you directions! He’s God’s good man, indeed, but he’s the most forgetful, most helpless—” She shrugged. “I’ve been in the vicarage, times, helping Missus Latchet to clean it. Vicar lets her in once a week, if she reminds him, only he warns her not to move a single volume, lest she lose his place in it!” She laughed. “A regular rat’s nest, it is, with more books than you’d believe there were in the world, stacked on every table and chair, and on the floor—and even on the windowsills! And every one of them—as you’ll see!—with a paper or two stuck in to mark a page!” The good woman shook her head admiringly. “Do you suppose he’s really read them all?”

Evading this, Kathryn said, “I hear he’s just received another whole houseful of books from a relative, so I consider it my Christian duty to help him put them in some sort of order.”

“You’ll never do it,” chuckled the farmer’s wife. “But I can see you’ll need our Polly to help you try! You’d better plan to take her to the vicarage too, for you’ll never be able to straighten out that mess with one arm!”

“Oh, thank you, Ma!” breathed Polly. “When shall I start, Mistress Radcliffe?”

“Would today be too soon?” asked Kathryn, to everyone’s amusement. The arrangements were easy to make, the most difficulty being encountered over the sum suggested by Kathryn for Polly’s wages, which everyone, including Polly, said with a scandalized air was far too much. Kathryn hastily agreed to the miserable pittance which Mrs. Bradley thought adequate, and then made inquiries as to where suitable material could be bought. And would Polly need a pattern?

An agreeable hour was spent in dealing with these important matters. Mrs. Bradley agreed to buy the materials and all else necessary on the following Saturday, when her husband was to drive her to Elsinghurst market for supplies. Money changed hands, and everyone involved felt that a most satisfactory bargain had been made.

Walking home with the promise that Polly would wait upon her early the following morning, Kathryn felt that she was doing very well indeed in the new situation. The money in the reticule was going rapidly, but she had very little fear that she would not get the job. If the Vicar was that absent-minded, he might even think he had sent for her himself. Everyone agreed that he needed help desperately, and Kathryn was equipped to give it. Better, she thought with a little pride, than anyone living in this country at this time! So things were going satisfactorily, and as soon as Bennet had the portrait installed at the Manor, the way would be open . . .

Daydreaming thus, she was completely unprepared for the iron-faced woman who met her at the Bennet farmhouse. In one hand Elspeth held a long glowing lock of red-gold hair—held it as though it were a viper.

“Mistress Radcliffe, is it?” she hissed at Kathryn. “The chambermaid at the Crown Inn brought this. She says she found it under the bureau when she was cleaning the room you used. The silly fool thought it was so pretty it must be a keepsake belonging to the Widow Radcliffe. But we know whose head it came from, do we not? From the head of his lordship’s Irish hussy, Lady Nadine Brionny!”

Then, when Kathryn did not answer, Elspeth said triumphantly, “We are not all as easily hoodwinked as Richard Bennet is!”