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series of doors into rooms whose Tudor and Jacobean
furniture won grudging approval from Aunt Honoria.
Her stick quivered with enthusiasm when she pointed
at a tapestry that depicted in finely stitched detail the
Great Fire of London. It seemed to me, however, that
Ned’s responses to her questions concerning court
cupboards
and
pewter
platters
became
more
perfunctory as we poked our way about those rooms
on the ground floor. When I watched him open the
only door we had not yet entered, I fell suddenly
terribly sad.
The feeling was almost as bad as when my cat had
died. And that was ridiculous because I’d had Tabitha
for as long as I could remember and Ned was only a
man in an apron with a face as old as time. Perhaps I
only felt down in the boots because I hadn’t had a
proper lunch or because the rain had begun weeping
against the windows to the accompaniment of wistful
sighs from the wind. Perhaps Ned was tired to the
bone and fed up to the teeth with trotting bossy old
ladies and little girls in and out of doors and up and
down stairs.
26
The room we now entered should have brightened
my mood. It was unlike any we had yet been shown.
The walls weren’t paneled in carved oak. They were
papered in a striped ivory-and-pale-green silk that
matched
the
scroll-armed
sofas,
which
like
the
curtains were edged with rose-colored cord. The
fireplace mantel was done in what Aunt Honoria
whispered to me was gold leaf, and several of the
delicate tables were inlaid with the same veneer of
sunlight. The paintings that hung from gold cords
were all of flowers— so fresh and real I was sure that if I
reached up I could pluck them from their frames and gather them
into a bouquet that would still be wet with dew and heady with the
scent of a summer from long ago.
“Charming,” said Aunt Honoria, but when Ned
stood aside she did not step more than a few feet into
the room. “I suppose the Perkinses did all this!” She
poked at the velvety rose carpet with her cane while
her lips tightened in a look of disapproval edged with
something softer, and I found myself moving up close
to her and wishing she would take hold of my hand.
Did she feel it too, the terrible empty waiting for
something or someone who had once filled this room
with a happiness brighter than gold leaf or sunlight?
“Mr. and Mrs. Perkins did redecorate this room
upon taking up residence,” Ned said, “but they did it
from an old watercolor sketch, so it now looks very
much as it did at the turn of the eighteenth century
when Sir Giles and Lady Thornton occupied the
house.”
“It’s very pretty.” I smiled up at him but he had
already turned back toward the hall as if eager to be
done with us so he could get back to cleaning his
brass. Aunt Honoria did not rap him on the shoulder
and demand that he give us the history of the
secretary desk or the harp-backed chairs. Perhaps she
had realized that Ned was also an antique of sorts and
should be treated with a measure of respect. Or could
it be she was growing a little tired herself? After all she
was getting on in years and might now prefer a cup of
tea to climbing that extremely tall staircase. I wasn’t
particularly eager myself, and my voice came out in a
whisper that was almost lost in the wind that was
beginning to sound like the big bad wolf.
“Ned, is there a ghost at Thornton Hall?”
“I never saw one, little miss,” he replied, and went
27
ahead of us up the uncarpeted stairs.
“The house must have its stories.” Aunt Honoria
came tapping fast upon my heels.
“It’s said three of the Thornton children died in the
plague of 1665,” Ned spoke over his shoulder. “And the
eldest son of the sixth baronet was killed in a duel
fought on the grounds.”
“How awful,” I said, feeling much more cheerful.
The house had seen a lot in its day. Good times and
sad. So some rooms, like the one now used for the
teashop, were likely to be cheerful as copper kettles,
while others, like the pretty ivory-and-green room,
would have their moments of melancholy. But it wasn’t
as though Thornton Hall was a person. Houses don’t
cry until they’re all wet on the outside and dry on the
inside. They don’t love till it hurts and wish they could
die, as I had done when Tabitha had to be put to sleep.
Ned took us into several upstairs rooms with
enormous four-poster beds and I asked him if Charles
II had really slept in any of them.
“I don’t believe so, little miss, but maybe one of his
lady friends did. The Merry Monarch had enough of
them to fill all the beds in his kingdom.” Ned smiled so
that his mouth became the biggest wrinkle on his
wrinkled face. And I found myself wishing I could tuck
him into an easy chair and stroke his white hair until
he fell asleep.
I was not a particularly affectionate child, except
where animals were concerned, but I wasn’t as
coldhearted as Aunt Honoria, and even she seemed to
be mellowing as we continued our tour. She only
pointed her stick at one piece of furniture and
denounced it as a blatant reproduction, and once or
twice I discovered a gentle light in her eye as she
looked at Ned. Goodness! I thought. Was it possible
that she had fallen madly in love with him on the way [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]