to Gloria. They spent hours buried in books on the subject. Would Gloria’s teachers and fellow students be able to appreciate her enthusiasm for insects and animals in an English girls’ school?
2
I t’s all right; I can get out on my own.”
Although Timothy Lambert had just rejected the help of his servant, Roly, he found it especially difficult that day to swing his legs onto the gig’s footboard, put his leg braces on, and then find solid footing on the ground with the help of his crutches. He felt stiff and irritable—which was almost always the case when the anniversary of the accident to which he owed his handicap approached. This would be the eleventh year since the collapse of the Lambert Mine, and like every year, the mine management would hold a small memorial on the anniversary. The victims’ surviving relatives and the coal miners working in the mine appreciated the gesture, but Tim would be the center of attention as Roly O’Brien once again told the story of how the mine owner’s son had rescued him. Tim always hated watching the expressions on people’s faces, which alternated between hero worship and horror.
While Roly led the horse into the stable, Tim limped up to the house. As it did every time, the sight of the isolated white wood building lifted his spirits. He had had the simple structure built after marrying Elaine—despite the protests of his parents, who had advised him to build a more suitable residence. Their own villa closer to town was much more in keeping with the proper image of a mine owner’s residence. But Elaine had not wanted to share Lambert Manor with Tim’s parents, and the grand two-story estate, with its open staircases and bedrooms on the upper floor, hardly suited Tim’s needs. Besides, he wasn’t really a mine owner; most of his shares in the business belonged to the investor George Greenwood.
“Daddy!” Lilian threw open the door. Tim’s oldest son, Rube, appeared behind Lilian, looking disappointed because Lilian had once again been the one to open the door for their father.
“Daddy! You have to hear what I was practicing today.” Lilian loved to play the piano, though she did so with more enthusiasm than skill. “ ‘ Annabel Lee . ’ Do you know it? It’s really sad. The woman is sooo pretty, and the prince loves her awfully, but then—”
“Girl stuff,” Rube complained. Though he was only seven years old, he already knew what he was supposed to think was absurd. “Check out my train, Dad! I built the new engine all by myself.”
“That’s not true. Mummy helped you,” Lilian said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t hear the word ‘train’ anymore today.” He tousled his son’s red-brown tuft. Though all four children had their mother’s red hair, the three boys otherwise looked more like Tim.
Tim’s countenance brightened when his wife appeared. She was still beautiful, with shining green eyes, pale skin, and untamable curly red locks. Her ancient dog Callie trotted behind her.
Elaine kissed Tim softly on the cheek. “What did she do this time?” she asked by way of greeting.
Tim furrowed his brow. “Are you a mind reader?” he asked, confused.
Elaine laughed. “Not exactly, but you only make that face when you’re contemplating a new way of disposing of Florence Biller. And since you don’t normally have anything against trains, it must have something to do with the new rail connection.”
“Precisely. But let me get settled first. What are the little ones up to?”
Elaine snuggled up to her husband so that he could surreptitiously lean on her and helped him into the living room, where she removed his jacket before he sank down into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace.
“Jeremy drew a sheep and wrote ‘ship’ underneath,” Elaine explained. “It’s hard to say whether he wrote or drew the wrong thing.” Jeremy was six and learning his ABCs. “And Billy managed four steps at a go.”
As if he wanted
2
I t’s all right; I can get out on my own.”
Although Timothy Lambert had just rejected the help of his servant, Roly, he found it especially difficult that day to swing his legs onto the gig’s footboard, put his leg braces on, and then find solid footing on the ground with the help of his crutches. He felt stiff and irritable—which was almost always the case when the anniversary of the accident to which he owed his handicap approached. This would be the eleventh year since the collapse of the Lambert Mine, and like every year, the mine management would hold a small memorial on the anniversary. The victims’ surviving relatives and the coal miners working in the mine appreciated the gesture, but Tim would be the center of attention as Roly O’Brien once again told the story of how the mine owner’s son had rescued him. Tim always hated watching the expressions on people’s faces, which alternated between hero worship and horror.
While Roly led the horse into the stable, Tim limped up to the house. As it did every time, the sight of the isolated white wood building lifted his spirits. He had had the simple structure built after marrying Elaine—despite the protests of his parents, who had advised him to build a more suitable residence. Their own villa closer to town was much more in keeping with the proper image of a mine owner’s residence. But Elaine had not wanted to share Lambert Manor with Tim’s parents, and the grand two-story estate, with its open staircases and bedrooms on the upper floor, hardly suited Tim’s needs. Besides, he wasn’t really a mine owner; most of his shares in the business belonged to the investor George Greenwood.
“Daddy!” Lilian threw open the door. Tim’s oldest son, Rube, appeared behind Lilian, looking disappointed because Lilian had once again been the one to open the door for their father.
“Daddy! You have to hear what I was practicing today.” Lilian loved to play the piano, though she did so with more enthusiasm than skill. “ ‘ Annabel Lee . ’ Do you know it? It’s really sad. The woman is sooo pretty, and the prince loves her awfully, but then—”
“Girl stuff,” Rube complained. Though he was only seven years old, he already knew what he was supposed to think was absurd. “Check out my train, Dad! I built the new engine all by myself.”
“That’s not true. Mummy helped you,” Lilian said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t hear the word ‘train’ anymore today.” He tousled his son’s red-brown tuft. Though all four children had their mother’s red hair, the three boys otherwise looked more like Tim.
Tim’s countenance brightened when his wife appeared. She was still beautiful, with shining green eyes, pale skin, and untamable curly red locks. Her ancient dog Callie trotted behind her.
Elaine kissed Tim softly on the cheek. “What did she do this time?” she asked by way of greeting.
Tim furrowed his brow. “Are you a mind reader?” he asked, confused.
Elaine laughed. “Not exactly, but you only make that face when you’re contemplating a new way of disposing of Florence Biller. And since you don’t normally have anything against trains, it must have something to do with the new rail connection.”
“Precisely. But let me get settled first. What are the little ones up to?”
Elaine snuggled up to her husband so that he could surreptitiously lean on her and helped him into the living room, where she removed his jacket before he sank down into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace.
“Jeremy drew a sheep and wrote ‘ship’ underneath,” Elaine explained. “It’s hard to say whether he wrote or drew the wrong thing.” Jeremy was six and learning his ABCs. “And Billy managed four steps at a go.”
As if he wanted
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