A Future Arrived (17 page)

The house awed Albert into silence as he followed one of the footmen down a long, spacious corridor toward the room he had been given. His suitcase, he noticed with a pang of shame, looked terribly small and shabby in the brawny hand of the liveried servant. A maid passed, hurrying along the passage carrying a stack of fresh towels, her starched uniform rustling as she walked. He smiled at her but she avoided his glance.

“Do you require anything, sir?” the footman asked after placing the suitcase on a wood bench at the foot of the bed.

Albert shook his head numbly.

“Very good, sir. The bell-pull is beside the door.”

And then the man was gone and he was alone in a large, sunny room with a splendid view of formal gardens. He sat on the edge of the bed, not sure of what to do next. Wait for Martin, he supposed. He thought of the maid with her load of towels. A pleasant-looking young woman doing what his sister had done in this house. An upstairs maid … making beds and changing towels. Ivy's daily tasks. And here he was, a guest to be waited on—if he had the courage to pull the bell-rope.

There was a tentative tap on the door and he jumped to his feet just as it opened. A blond woman wearing American-style slacks and a green silk blouse stepped into the room, smiling at him … rather sadly, he thought.

“So you are Albert Edward.”

“Y-yes,” he stammered.

She walked over to him and touched him lightly on the cheek. “I would have known even if Martin hadn't told me you were up here. You resemble Ivy Thaxton so much it's uncanny … a very
manly
image of your sister, let me add … but the same eyes, shape of face.”

“Lady Alexandra Greville?”

“Yes. Mrs. Ross now … Alexandra to you, please.”

“Mum … my mother … kept a picture of you and Ivy on her dresser.”

“Taken in front of our quarters in Rouen. September nineteen sixteen. You were two years old then. Ivy and I were always knitting things for you in our spare time—not that there was much of that, I'm afraid—sweaters and little woolly caps. And now here you are, practically a grown man.” She took hold of his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Had your tea?”

“No. I haven't even unpacked yet.”

“I'll have father's valet do that for you.”

“Please don't bother,” he said quickly. “I can manage it later.” He had to laugh. It was all too absurd. “I don't know what a valet would make of my things.”

She put an arm about his waist and led him toward the door. “I know, rumpled pajamas and mismatched socks. Come along then. Consider yourself in my charge. We'll have tea and I'll introduce you to everyone.” She shook her head in wonder. “Ivy's baby brother. I can't tell you how happy I am that you're here. Dear God, if only she were here as well.”

T
HE BOOTHS FOR
the charity bazaar and fete were being set up in a large meadow half a mile from the Pryory. Volunteers from Abingdon, including men from local chapters of the British Legion, and Royal Order of Foresters were wielding hammers and saws while a crowd of women and children, including eighteen from Burgate House School, festooned the structures with red, white, and blue bunting—to Hanna alone the colors of the Stars and Stripes, not the Union Jack. Beyond the booths where food, drink, and a variety of crafts would be sold, a small traveling carnival was erecting a gaudy merry-go-round, swings, coconut shies, and other attractions of chance and skill.

“There she is,” Charles said. “The woman on the ladder.”

Martin gave Marian Halliday a long, educated look and liked everything that he saw—a slender, comely woman in slacks and sweater not afraid to stand on a ladder and tack bunting to a board. A woman who, when she spotted Charles, flashed a smile of such joy that it could only have come from the heart.

Martin whistled softly between his teeth. “Charlie, as they say back home, you've done yourself proud.”

D
EREK
R
AMSAY STRUGGLED
through the trampled grass with a load of bunting in his arms, the red-and-white cloth unwinding from the heavy rolls and trailing after him in the mud.

“Oh, do watch what you're doing,” Valerie A'Dean-Spender called out as she came along behind him carrying a roll of blue. “You'll get it all dirty, Fat Chap.”

“No I won't,” he replied stubbornly.

He was short for twelve with a chunky body and sturdy legs, but in the nearly eight weeks that he had been at Burgate House he had lost so much flab as to make his nickname virtually meaningless. One month after entering the school his grandfather had been delighted—and mildly dismayed—by a letter from Matron informing him that all of Derek's clothing was too large for him now and should be replaced. She had also informed him in a postscript that there had not been “even one unfortunate accident during the night.” Happy and contented boys do not wet their beds. A scug no longer.

“Mrs. Halliday is going to be angry if you do,” Valerie warned. “You'll see.”

She was not angry as she looked down from her perch on the ladder, but she did admonish him gently for bringing the cloth to the wrong place. “That batch is for the pony ride fence, Derek. Don't you remember?”

“I told you so!” Valerie wailed. “Oh, you
are
an ass, Fat Chap.”

“That will do, Valerie,” she said sternly. “Better leave one roll here for now, Derek. They're much too heavy.”

“I'll take it,” a boy said. “I want to help.”

Derek eyed the boy narrowly. He had seen him at the school the day before. Mr. Greville's nephew from America. A Colin something-or-other … tall, sandy haired, and freckled. He was helping now; the not very strenuous task of bracing the ladder for Mrs. Halliday. He wanted to tell him to buzz off, that he was perfectly capable of carrying them one hundred yards across the meadow to where men were finishing the fence, but he could see the headmaster approaching.

“If you want to,” he muttered, letting one of the rolls fall to the ground.

Valerie gave up there and then, setting down her burden and sitting on it. “It's not fair. We would have been there by now.”

Colin Mackendric Ross touched the girl on the shoulder. “I can carry that one too, but not with you on it. Okay?”

“Okay!” she cried, springing to her feet.
“Yankee Chappie!”

“Does she always give people names?” Colin asked as they walked away.

Derek nodded. “Yes. And we call her Pest.”

“How old is she?”

“I don't know. Nine, I think. How old are you?”

“Ten … going on eleven.”

Derek stopped walking and looked at him. He was a head taller than himself and carried the two rolls of bunting as though they had no weight whatever. “
Ten?
Is that all?”

“Big for my age … that's what my mother says. My father was tall, she said. Six foot three, or something like that. I guess I take after him.”

“You never knew him?”

“He died when I was a kid. In Canada. That's where I was born. Toronto. He was a doctor and had a heart attack … I think it was. Yeah, a heart attack.”

“My father was killed in the war. He won the V.C. Do you know what that is?”

“Sure. The Victoria Cross. Was he a pilot?”

“I don't think so. Royal Marines.”

“Pilots won the most V.C.s I bet. Shooting down zeps … dogfights over the lines … that sort of thing. Have you ever been up in a plane?”

“Lots of times,” he lied. “All sorts.”

“Same here. My father—that is, my new father—he builds them. He has a factory in San Diego.”

“Is that in Spain?”

“Spain? Heck no, California.”

He tried to remember his geography. California was where Drake had stopped in the
Golden Hind
while sailing around the world. San Francisco. Hollywood was in California someplace. He had never heard of San Diego. He felt foolish for asking if it were in Spain. Why would the man have a factory in Spain and live in America? He trudged on, his arms leaden. He was getting tired and would like to have stopped and rested for a minute, but the red-headed ten-year-old would have to stop first. He showed no sign of doing so, striding along, whistling, the bundles thrust under his long arms. Derek had to trot in order to keep up with him.

“Say, can you ride a horse?” Colin asked.

“A horse? I … I suppose so. Why?”

“I have a horse at home. We have a ranch in La Jolla. Not a big ranch … not like a pal of mine at school. His father has a ranch in Escondido that's thousands and thousands of acres. I have this horse, Gunboat I call him, a palomino, and I can make him jump and everything and he loves to gallop along the beach and splash in the surf. Gosh, I wish I could have brought old Gunboat over here, but my grandfather has lots of horses. Heck, let's drop this stuff off in a hurry and go up to the stables.”

They ran the last thirty yards, gave the bunting to the men erecting the fence, and then headed off across the meadow toward the distant stables. Derek, struggling to catch his breath, pretended to turn his ankle and sat down in the deep grass. Colin squatted on his heels beside him.

“You hurt it bad?”

“I … don't … think so.” He gasped, making a show of rubbing his ankle. “Be … all right … in a minute or two.”

“I do it lots of times when I play baseball. I catch my spikes sliding into second. But, heck, everyone does that … Gehrig … Al Simmons … everyone. Just spit and keep on playing.”

Derek continued to rub his ankle, looking at Colin Mackendric Ross out of the corner of his eye. He still felt uneasy around boys bigger than himself. None of the bigger boys at Burgate House were bullies, but almost all of the ones at Archdean had been. The “Bloods,” the athletes, swaggering about with their badges and blazers and special caps and scarves, pushing anyone who annoyed them. It seemed incredible that this boy was only ten years old. He smiled at the thought of an Archdean Blood pushing this Yankee Chappie around.

“Are you staying at the earl's house?”

Colin plucked at the grass. “He's my grandfather. We come over every year and stay for a month, and he and Grandmama come to us every Christmas … though I don't think they'll come this year because he was sick.” Reaching out, he touched Derek's foot. “Do you think it's better now?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Feel up to a ride, then?”

“I … better not.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't know how.” He could feel his face burn. “I've never been on a horse. Never been up in a plane, either.” He stiffened in expectation of a hoot of derision.

Colin tossed some grass into the air and watched it drift in the wind. “Heck, I could teach you. Riding a horse isn't hard. And flying isn't such big stuff. Noisy as heck, though. My brother, John … he's seven … he won't go near a plane. The sound hurts his ears. He had an operation a couple of years ago. Mastoid … or something like that. Wouldn't you like to know how to ride?”

“I suppose so.”

“Come on, then. There's no horses here.”

Gardway was inspecting a batch of ponies that had been culled from farms throughout the Vale of Abingdon. There were sturdy Welsh and Connemaras, nimble footed Dartmoors, and even a sprinkling of Shetlands, not much taller than large dogs.

“Hello, Master Colin,” the head groom called out cheerfully. “What do you think of 'em?”

“More of them than last year, Mr. Gardway.”

“Right you are, lad. It's the most popular attraction with the young'uns.”

“Any large ones?”

“One. Mrs. Herbert's Flossie … from over Bigham way.”

“Could you saddle her up?”

The man laughed, tipped his cap to the back of his head. “You, Master Colin? You're a fair way beyond a pony now, even a ruddy big one like Flossie.”

“For my friend here. He's never ridden before.”

“You don't say so?” He eyed Derek with something close to pity. “Well, I never. Still, it will have to wait, I'm afraid. I can't let you take the old dear out alone, Master Colin. I'm responsible to Mrs. Herbert, I am. You can have the cob.”

“Too high a gait for a beginner,” Colin said. “I rode Flossie last summer, Mr. Gardway. Remember? She knows me and I'd look after her.”

“Sorry, lad. Not now. I have all this bunch to water, feed, stable, and make ready for tomorrow.”

Colin watched the man walk off, shouting orders to the stable boys.

“Sorry.”

“That's all right,” Derek said with a sense of relief.

“Do you live at my uncle's school?”

“I'm staying on through the summer, if that's what you mean.”

Colin bent his head and whispered. “We could come back later. At midnight.”