She hadn’t noticed Boris and he thought it only polite to interrupt. “Hello,” he said, his voice coming out louder than he meant it to, “I’ve come to visit you in your hour of need, Great-Aunt Mabel. I am your sister Edna’s only grandson, Boris, and this moment my heart is overflowing with—
He never did get to say with what, because his Great-Aunt Mabel sat bolt upright on the sofa and emitted a piercing scream before sending a pillow sailing toward his head.
“Get out, you little monster,” she yelled, “before I have you taken outside and hung, drawn and quartered!”
“But, Auntie, I love you . . .”
A second pillow hit him squarely in the chest and, taking the hint, Boris headed out the door, where he came upon a very thin elderly man wheeling an empty tea trolley toward him.
“Afternoon, young master,” said Mr. Tipp.
Rarely, in all his eleven years, had Boris felt more embarrassed. But he managed to display a loftiness worthy of the New Church School uniform.
“Someone should lock her Ladyship up in the garderobe,” he said, before turning and running full tilt back down the stairs. Luckily, or so he thought at the time, he didn’t collide with Mr. Ferncliffe who one minute before had abandoned his search for his missing pupil, and gone to drown his sorrows in a cup of tea.
“Dear Mabel.” Cousin Sophie’s crooning voice came at Lady Gossinger through a thick fog. “I think you have been quite astonishingly brave. Lie back on the sofa, dear, and give your poor head a rest, while I pour you a nice cup of lukewarm tea.”
“Is he gone?” Her Ladyship cracked open an eye before remembering that her life was over.
“You mean that horrid little boy, dear?”
“Edna’s grandson? He was really here? Lord help me, I hoped he was just a nightmare. But I was actually talking about Henry. Flown the coop, has he? Or is the old bean cowering behind that half-open door, waiting for me to call out that I appreciate no end his letting me in on his plans to change his will and leave Gossinger Hall to Hutchins?” The wronged wife held up her hand in a futile attempt to stop the tower room spinning at a crazily lopsided angle that threatened to topple her off the sofa into an undignified heap.
“Henry became very flustered, as well he ought, Mabel.” Cousin Sophie tried not to sound as if she were thoroughly enjoying the situation, but her hands trembled with excitement as she filled a cup from the silver teapot. “He said something about women liking to be alone at times such as this and hurried from the room as if all the devils in hell were after him when you started to go into convulsions. As any reasonable person would have done under the circumstances,” Cousin Sophie hastened to say. “Such a shock, and right after eating cheese scones. It’s a wonder you are still with us, Mabel.”
“And I suppose young Vivian was only a couple of steps behind his uncle, and neither one of them had the consideration to close the door behind them.” Lady Gossinger blinked back a tear.
“It was the boy—Boris, I think that was his name— he left the door ajar. Good manners are rarely to be found in young people today.” Cousin Sophie hesitated, then added in an obvious attempt at fanning the flames: “Flora did the same thing, if you remember, after she brought in the tea.”
“And to think that stupid little nobody will be queening it here at Gossinger after Henry kicks the bucket. If that isn’t enough to make you spit! As my sister Edna would say.” Her Ladyship’s face turned an almost fluorescent purple. “Having a bit more class, I think I’ll settle for killing myself.”
“But surely that would be a little premature! Bear in mind, dear, that Henry hasn’t changed his will yet. And in this uncertain world anything could happen. For instance, though one hesitates to mention it, Henry might pass away before he sees his solicitor. Admittedly it’s a remote possibility, but life can play some very funny tricks at times.” Sophie shook her head philosophically.
“Henry’s as healthy as a horse.”
“But he
is
laboring under a great deal of pressure.” Cousin Sophie tiptoed over to the sofa with the cup of stone-cold tea, most of which had slopped over into the saucer. “Drink this down, Mabel, and remember you are not alone. I am in your corner.”
On this encouraging note the old lady went over to the door and, at the moment of closing it, saw Vivian Gossinger on the stairs. The young man was standing at such an angle that she could not be sure whether he was coming or going, but as far as she was concerned it made no difference.
“Go away!” Flushed with power, she mouthed the words at him. “Your Aunt Mabel doesn’t want to see you. She has the greatest distaste for men at this moment.”
“Whatever are you mumbling about?” demanded Lady Gossinger.
“Nothing, dear. Just thinking about how best to help you.” Cousin Sophie tried to smooth out her face, but traces of triumph still showed around the edges of her mouth when she turned back into the room. Her eyes fixed for a moment on the oak cupboard by the fireplace where the bottle of sherry was kept in readiness for a visit from the vicar. A tiresome man, the vicar, with a nose like an old boot. But in all likelihood he would say that God had presented her with the opportunity for which Sophie had pined during her five-year visit to Gossinger Hall. At last she was needed. Sorely needed. And if she played her hand correctly, Mabel’s gratitude might cause an old lady to feel secure at last that she would not abruptly find herself out on the street with a shopping cart and a sudden desire to join the Salvation Army.
Pictures filled Sophie’s head. Happy pictures, beginning with breakfast in bed and ending with having her pillows fluffed by hands eager to smooth out any and
every crease that might mar a perfect night’s sleep for Mabel’s guardian angel. Unfortunately, these hopeful images were shattered when Lady Gossinger dropped her Royal Derby teacup and saucer with a fearsome clatter and burst into noisy sobs.
“Oh, go away, Sophie, do!” Her Ladyship’s flailing hand found a damask serviette and she blew her nose three times—very hard. “Get out, I say. I honestly can’t bear to look at you.”
“But why, Mabel?” The old lady felt a bubble burst deep inside her, and tears welled in her eyes. “What have I done? What in heaven’s name have I said?”
“You were there! A witness to all my lower-class instincts running amuck! You heard me screaming at Henry like a bloody fishwife. And if that wasn’t enough, you had a ringside view of the bloody encore when Boris showed up. So now if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to try and pull myself together before I crawl back into the gutter where I belong.”
“Better an honest fishwife,” Cousin Sophie dabbed at her tears with an arthritic knuckle before bending down with great dignity to pick up the broken pieces of china, “than a mealy-mouthed coward.”
“What
did you call me?” A gasp went down the wrong way and her Ladyship started to cough.
“You heard me.” Cousin Sophie straightened and walked over to the wastepaper basket by the fireplace. “And I’m surprised at you, Mabel, for talking about giving up without even attempting to fight for your rights as Henry’s wife. Somehow, although I’ve never set eyes on her, I’m certain your sister Edna would have more backbone.”
Lady Gossinger was stung to the quick. “But what in heaven’s name can I do?”
“May I suggest, Mabel,” Cousin Sophie had brightened considerably at the success of her less than subtle ploy, “that you exercise your womanly wiles.”
“What—throw myself into Henry’s arms and start blubbering all over his waistcoat?” Her Ladyship vented her contempt in a hollow laugh. “Those sort of dramatics might work if I were blond and beautiful with a face that looked as though God made it yesterday morning. For your information, Sophie, I look like a clown when I cry. Thanks all the same, but I think I’ll hold on to what little dignity I have left.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, dear. That was going to be my suggestion, Mabel: that you compose yourself before seeing Henry again. At which time you tell him you’re sorry you went off the deep end because you now wholeheartedly agree with his decision. In fact,” Cousin Sophie sat down in one of the judgment-seat chairs across from Lady Gossinger, “you think he’s an absolute saint for acting
upon
his conscience, and never have you loved him more dearly, or been prouder to be his wife, than at this moment in time.”
“And what will that do?”
“Henry will realize he married a treasure.”
“And?” Lady Gossinger raised a derisive eyebrow.
“With luck, he’ll start wondering if he isn’t behaving like an absolute cad. Especially, dear Mabel, if you suit action to words and
turn up the heat.”
“You’re talking about the
radiators?”
“No, dear.” Cousin Sophie glanced toward the door as if fearing someone might have his ear to the keyhole. “I’m talking, if you will excuse the vulgarity, about
sex.
Men are such babies when it comes to all that nonsense. Or so I understand from listening to some of the television chat shows. And I do not think it would hurt, and might well do the world of good, if you were to make a concerted effort, perhaps two or three times a week, until Henry got the point.”
“Which is?” Her Ladyship had not felt this uncomfortable on her wedding night.
“That he should leave Gossinger Hall to you, or at
least to Vivian—which would amount to the same thing, because that young man has made it plain he would never want to live here. You know what I am suggesting: see-through nighties, bedroom eyes and all that sort of thing. Of course that may well seem an insurmountable task, especially for someone who is through the change of life....”
“I am nothing of the sort!”
“No, of course not.” Cousin Sophie struggled to rally from this monumental blunder. “What was I thinking? It is just that ... you are so very ... mature for your age.”
“I’m sure you are trying to be helpful,” said Lady Gossinger without much sincerity, “but if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to be by myself so I can really enjoy being miserable.”
“The wisest course of action, Mabel.” The old lady forced a quivering smile. “But do think about my suggestion. Men are so susceptible to a little cheesecake ... I think that is the term used by the married women of my acquaintance. Meanwhile, dear, I will try to make myself useful by going to see why Tipp has not been up to remove the tea things. Perhaps he overheard your upset with that awful boy and thought it best not to come in until you had recovered.”
“Forget about Tipp! The last thing I need at this moment is that old geezer buggering about when I’m trying to pick up the pieces of my life!” Lady Gossinger knew she sounded common as muck, and she didn’t much care. “For all I friggin’ well know, Henry has left Tipp a manor house in Cornwall!”
“You mustn’t worry about that, dear.” Cousin Sophie spoke in a depleted voice. “There isn’t any family property left besides Gossinger. Unless you count the Dower House.”
“Oh, go away!” Her Ladyship was about to pick up another cushion and hurl it full force, when the door
opened and closed, leaving her alone in the room. Blessed silence. At last she could enjoy her misery to the full. She stood at the window, a sturdy woman in sensible tweeds with tears plopping off the end of her nose.
From the window, she could see the Dower House which Cousin Sophie had mentioned, separated from Gossinger Hall by the road and a market garden. A handsome Tudor dwelling, it had been built on the site of Lady Normina’s twelfth-century dream kitchen. But the Dower House wouldn’t provide a refuge for a dispossessed widow, because it was leased to the family who operated the garden and there was as little likelihood of getting them out as—Lady Gossinger gulped down a sob—as there was of Hutchins conveniently dropping dead before Henry signed his new will.
What it comes down to, old girl,
the former Mabel Bowser thought,
is the age-old question: Are you a woman or a mouse?
She could feel her spine stiffening. She was beginning to sound like Lady Gossinger again. No more sniveling. The time had come for action.
She went over to the cupboard by the fireplace and removed a small object from behind the bottle of sherry. Tempted to shore herself up with a glass of liquid courage, she decided the last thing she needed was to picture the vicar lecturing her on the wages of sin. Best to do the dirty deed, if it was at all possible, today.
On this uplifting note, Lady Gossinger left the tower room. She went down the shadowy stairs and entered the Great Hall without meeting a soul; but there was something present—a stirring beneath the silence that made her wonder for the first time if the old tales about Gossinger’s being haunted might perhaps be true. Or was it only her silly conscience that made her feel the tiniest bit uneasy? Oh, ballocks to that, decided her Ladyship as she headed down the narrow passage toward
the tearoom and came face-to-face with the very person she was seeking.
“Ah, there you are!” she boomed in a voice now fully restored to its earthquake dimensions. “I have a little job for you to do. Won’t take but a moment, and afterward you can sit down to a nice cup of tea and a cream bun.”
* * * *
At that precise moment, Mrs. Much the housekeeper was making tea in a pot whose insides she had steeped in bleach overnight. Setting the kettle back on the ancient cooker, she patted her permed hair and gave her apron strings a resolute tug, while giving the kitchen a scathing glance. This room wasn’t any more cheerful than the rest of Gossinger, having been built at the turn of the century with an emphasis on reminding the household staff that fallen arches went with the job.
“If I don’t get away from this dreadful house I’ll end up throwing myself off the roof, and then there’ll be another ghost come to haunt Sir Henry and her Ladyship,” Mrs. Much said aloud. “And only three months ago I was thinking I’d landed the job of my life.”