"Thank you, Opal," said Mrs. Lovejoy, who was returning the letter to its envelope. "I won't need you here any longer. Go to the laundry house and help there."
"Yes, mum." Opal gave a quick curtsey to both of them and took the tray back through the doorway again.
"Always something to be done," the woman explained. "The washing, the cooking, the general maintenance. But it's my life now, Mr. Shayne. My calling."
"And an admirable calling it is, according to Oliver." He winced inwardly, and cautioned himself that it was better not to be so very damned eager.
"Sometimes admirable, sometimes just difficult." She tilted her head slightly, as if to examine him from a different angle. "I want you to understand that Paradise is very expensive. My
guests
—I always refer to them as my guests, for that's how much I respect them—require the best in food, care and consideration. But before I quote you a one year's fee, which would be our least expensive arrangement, let me ask you to tell me the particulars of your situation."
Matthew paused for a drink of tea, and then he forged ahead. "I am opening a law office after the first of the year. My wife and I will be—"
"In Philadelphia?" she asked. "Your office?"
"Yes. My wife and I will be moving down from New York. We have one son and another child on the way."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you." He brought up a frown. "The problem is . . . my grandfather. He's quite aged. Seventy-two years. Come December," he chose to add, just for the sake of texture. He felt he was drawing a picture, as much as Berry ever did. "My grandmother has been dead these last few years, my father passed away on the voyage over, and my mother . . . well, my mother met a new gentleman in New York, they married and returned to England."
"This
world
," she said, with no expression.
"Yes, a trying place. But . . . the situation is that my grand-father—"
"What's his name?"
"Walker," Matthew replied.
"An active name for an active man?"
"Exactly." Matthew offered a fleeting smile. He decided then was the time to touch the plaster under his eye. "Unfortunately . . . of late he has been
too
active."
"I was wondering. My pardon if you caught me looking." Now there was a quick show of teeth, then gone. The clear green eyes did not smile, Matthew noted. Ever.
He was getting nothing from her. Feeling nothing. But what had he expected? He swept his gaze around the room, as if trying to gather his next confession of the trials of this world, especially those of a young lawyer who needs to get rid of an uncomfortable cyst that pains his progress. The house, on the outside painted white with a light blue trim the exact color of the Paradise lettering, was simply a nice two-story dwelling that any lady of means might have owned. The furnishings were tasteful, the colors restrained, the windowpanes spotless and the throw rugs unsullied by a dirty boot. He wondered if Tyranthus Slaughter was lying upstairs in a bedroom right this moment, nursing his injuries. For Matthew had come to the conclusion that Lovejoys of a feather might well lie down together.
"Not long ago he struck me," Matthew continued. "Several times, in fact, as you can see. He's angry about his situation, I know, but things are as they are. He's not companionable with people, he's surly, he can't work, and . . . I have to say, I don't like my wife and son being with him, much less the idea of a new baby coming."
"And who's with him now? Your wife and son alone?"
"No. He's in the custody . . . excuse me, the
possession
of friends in New York."
Mrs. Lovejoy looked him directly in the eyes, again revealing nothing with her own. "He sounds like a difficult case."
Matthew didn't know whether her cool, polished demeanor made him go faster than he'd intended, or if he wanted to shake her up. He said, "Honestly, I'm afraid he might take a knife some night and slaughter us in our beds."
There was no reaction whatsoever. The lacquered surface between them held more expression than the woman's leonine face.
"In a manner of speaking," Matthew went on, a little flustered.
She lifted a hand. "Oh, I understand. Absolutely. I see many situations like this. An elderly person who is not used to being dependent, now finds the choices limited due to illness, waning strength or changing circumstances, and very often anger results. You and your wife have the demands of family and profession, and therein lies the problem. You say Walker will be seventy-two in December?" She waited for Matthew to nod. "Is he a strong man? In good physical health?"
"I'd say, for the most part, yes." He was still looking for some reaction, for
something
. Now, though, he wasn't sure he would know what it was if he saw it.
Mrs. Lovejoy picked up her letterblade and toyed with it. "I have found, Mr. Shayne, in my five years at this occupation—this
calling
—that the more physically aggressive guests are the ones who unfortunately tend to . . . " She cast about for the proper word. "Dissolve, when placed in a situation of being controlled. In time, they
all
dissolve, yes, but those . . . like your grandfather . . . do tend to go to pieces first. Am I making sense to you?"
"Perfect sense." He was beginning to wonder what the further point of this was.
Maybe it showed in his own eyes and came across as boredom, for Mrs. Lovejoy leaned toward him and said, "Men like your grandfather rarely last more than two years here, if that. Now: we would wish to make him comfortable, and as happy as possible. We would wish to feed him well, to keep up his strength, and give him some kind of challenge. We do have gardening activities, a greenhouse, a library and a barn they can putter around. We have women who come from town to read to them, and to tell stories. Your wife will wish to inquire about the Bluebirds once you're settled, I'm sure. They do all sorts of charitable deeds."
She reached out and patted his hand, very professionally. "Everything is taken care of here. Once you sign the agreement, it's all done. Your life is your own again, so that you may give it to your family and your future. And as for worrying about your grandfather's future . . . let me say that we hope, as I'm sure you do, that he lives many more happy years, but . . .
but
. . . when the day of God's blessing occurs, with your approval your grandfather will be laid to rest in Paradise's own private cemetery. He can be out of your mind and cares, Mr. Shayne, and you will know that for the remainder of his days he has received the very best treatment any guest of Paradise can be given. For
that
is my solemn promise."
"Ah," said Matthew, nodding. "That sounds hopeful, then."
"Come!" She stood up with a rustle of fabric. "Before we venture into the area of money, let me show you exactly what your coin would buy."
Matthew got his cloak and hat, and in a few minutes was walking beside Mrs. Lovejoy along the gravel drive that went past her house into the property. It was an aptly-named place, because it was certainly beautiful. There were stands of elm and oak trees brilliant in the sunshine, a meadow where sheep grazed, and a green pond where ducks drifted back and forth.
Mrs. Lovejoy continued to talk as they walked. Presently there were twelve male and sixteen female guests, she said. The men and women were housed in separate facilities, because—she said—snow on the roof did not necessarily mean the fireplace had gone cold. Their ages were from the late-sixties to the eighties, the eldest being eighty-four. The guests had been brought from Boston, New York, of course Philadelphia, Charles Town and many smaller towns between. Word-of-mouth was building her business, she said. As life moved faster and responsibilities increased, many people were—as she said—stuck between a rock and a hard place regarding aged parents. Sometimes the guests resented being here, but gradually they accepted their situation and understood it was for the greater good of their loved ones. Oh, there were the rowdy guests and the guests who cursed and fought, but usually they calmed down or they didn't last very long.
A doctor was within a thirty-minute ride, she assured him. Also, the doctor made several visits each week to check ailments and general health. A minister came on Sunday afternoons to lead worship in Paradise's church. Seven workers, all female, did the cooking, the washing, kept everything scrubbed and fresh and all the rest of it. Very upright girls, every one. "Here's our laundry house," Mrs. Lovejoy announced, as they came around a bend.
There stood a tidy-looking white brick building with two chimneys spouting smoke and a pile of wood stacked up alongside it ready to be burned under the wash kettles. The door was wide open, and three young women wearing the gray gowns and mob caps stood beside it chattering and laughing; they also, Matthew quickly saw, were taking snuff up their noses from a snuffbox. When they saw Mrs. Lovejoy they went stiff-backed and the laughter died. Two of the girls turned away and rushed inside, where the heat was probably stifling, to continue stirring the laundry with kettle poles. The third seemed to realize too late that her friends had abandoned her. She had been left holding the snuffbox.
Before the girl could retreat into the laundry house, Mrs. Lovejoy said sharply, "
Opal
! Bring that to me." And then, under her breath to Matthew: "I have
told
them such nasty habits will not be tolerated. Pardon me while I apply the whip."
Opal held the snuffbox behind her as she approached, as if that would do any good. In her eyes there was a mixture of trepidation and . . . what? Matthew wondered. Barely-repressed hilarity? Opal's mouth was twisted tight; was she about to laugh in mum's face?
It was never to be known. At that moment came the crunch of hooves on gravel. Two horses pulling a wagon came trotting along the drive from the direction of Mrs. Lovejoy's house. Matthew and the woman stepped aside as the wagon approached. Guiding the reins was a heavy-set, bulky-shouldered young man maybe Matthew's age or just a little older. He was wearing a gray monmouth cap, a russet-colored shirt, brown breeches and stockings and wore a brown cloak over his shoulders. His hair looked to be skinned to the scalp, from what Matthew could see. He had a broad, pallid face with fleshy lips and his scraggly black eyebrows met in the middle.
"May I help you?" Mrs. Lovejoy asked.
"Need talk," the young bulk said; something was wrong with his mouth or tongue, for even that simple sentence was garbled.
"I am with someone," she said crisply.
He balled up a formidable fist and rapped three times on the wagon's side.
Mrs. Lovejoy cleared her throat. "Opal? Would you continue Mr. Shayne's tour of our Paradise? And please do something with that snuffbox. Mr. Shayne, I'm needed for the moment. I'll meet you back at my house in . . . oh . . . fifteen or twenty minutes?" She was already going around to climb up on the seat. Matthew followed her to do the gentlemanly thing.
"Not necessary," she said, but she let him help her.
As Mrs. Lovejoy took his hand and stepped up, Matthew glanced into the rear of the wagon. Back there, among dead leaves and general untidiness, was a scatter of workman's odds-and-ends: some lumberboards of various lengths, a pickaxe and shovel, a couple of lanterns, a pair of leather gloves, a wooden mallet, and underneath the mallet a dirty burlap bag that—
"Mr. Shayne?" came the woman's voice.
He brought himself back. "Yes!"
"You can let go of my hand now."
"Surely." He released it and stepped back, but before doing so he glanced one more time at what he'd thought he'd seen, in case the problem with his vision fading in and out had become a problem of seeing what was not there.
But it
was
there.
"Later then," said Mrs. Lovejoy. "Take care of Mr. Shayne, Opal."
"Yes, mum, I shall."
The wagon moved off, heading deeper into the property. An interesting wagon, Matthew thought as he watched it follow the drive and disappear beyond a stand of trees. Interesting because of the dirty burlap bag that was lying underneath the mallet.
The bag that had
'Sutch A'
across it in red paint. If he could have picked the bag up and shaken out the folds, wrinkles and dead leaves he would have read its full declaration:
Mrs. Sutch's Sausages
and, below that, the legend
'Sutch A Pleasure'.
Want a sniff?"
The snuffbox, open to its mound of yellow powder, was suddenly up below Matthew's nose. He stepped back a pace, still with Mrs. Sutch's pleasure on his mind. "No, thank you."
"Don't laugh, you
bitches
!" Opal called to her friends as the girls emerged grinning from the steaming innards of the laundry house. She took two sniffs up the snoot and sneezed with hurricanious violence. Then she hooked an arm around Matthew's, her eyes watering, and crowed, "I've got me a
man
!" She pulled him along as if he were made out of spit and straw.
Matthew let himself be pulled.
"Well!" she said, striding with a jaunty step. "What do you want to
see
?"
"What's worth seeing?"
She gave him a deep-dimpled smile. "Now
that's
an answer!" She glanced back to gauge if her companions in crime were still watching, and when she saw they'd returned to their labors she released his arm. "Not much worth seein', 'round here at least," she confided. She looked him over from boots to tricorn. "Here, now! You ain't
old
enough to be puttin' a mater or pater in this velvet prison!"
"I'm bringing my grandfather. And I don't think Mrs. Lovejoy would care to hear your description of Paradise."
"This ain't
my
idea of Paradise!" she scoffed, her nose wrinkled up so hard Matthew thought the metal ring might go flying out. "Hell, no!" She suddenly seemed to catch her own imprudence. Her cheeks reddened and she widened the distance between them by several feet. "Listen, you ain't gonna go blab about my tongue, are you? I mean, my tongue gets me in awful trouble. I'm already hangin' on to my job by the curl of an ass-hair."