Friends and Lovers Read Free Page B

carpenters were at the cottage working on the box stairs. To that time, they had made a colossal racket and mess, disassembling the wall panels. Everett has some pieces of wood he is drawing a design on for the bottom panel, to hide the rough step-ends. This occupies most of his time, and all of our dining room table, which is where he has elected to do his calculations and design. Mama and I now take all our meals in the breakfast parlor, which is no more than a corner nook by the window, overlooking the rose garden.
    The letter was written by a Mr. Enberg, a friend of Peter’s, telling us he was leaving India with the children the next week, to return to England on the East India Company ship. The letter was three months old, which made it probable they would be arriving within the next week or so. It had taken Hettie eighty-five days to get there. He would take the children to London. He had also written to Menrod, who would presumably meet them there, as he had not asked us to.
    After we had done rejoicing, our next business was to discover whether Menrod had received his letter and would be in London to meet the children. I had no idea where he might be in March. Late April would certainly see him in London for the Season, with darts to Newmarket and Epsom for the races. I had some inkling he might be at one of the smaller race meets, the hurdles at Dover or Warwick, perhaps, for he was a keen horseman.
    “Let us go up to Dower House and speak to Lady Menrod,” I suggested. “She will know where he is.”
    “Mr. Everett knows—he wrote him in London, did he not?”
    “Indeed he did, but that was a whole week ago. I’ll speak to him, see if Menrod mentioned his plans. If he is not in London, we will have to go and meet the children, Mama.”
    “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, aghast at the idea. We live less than fifty miles from the city, but do not make the trip oftener than once every two or three years. We have not been there since my father’s death.
    I went on the fly into the hallway to put the question to Mr. Everett. “I have no notion where he might be,” he answered.
    “He did not mention how long he would be staying in London?”
    “Why would he tell me? I have never met the man.”
    “You wrote to him. In his reply, I thought he might have said something.”
    “I had no reply to my letter. That looks as though he was not in the city at all, does it not?”
    “Had no reply?” I asked, staring. “You said he approved of the alterations! You don’t mean you have gone tearing the house apart without his consent? He is as fussy as may be about the cottage, because of its age and authenticity. He wants it kept as a gem of Elizabethan architecture. He would not hear of having the thatch removed and shingles put on last year, when the mice were driving us to distraction.”
    “I told him I was doing it. If he disliked it, he would have written.”
    “How could he write, if he didn’t have your letter? Oh, Mr. Everett, you had better hammer those panels back on immediately.”
    “I had them carted away to my place and burned, out back where the lads are clearing away all the bits and pieces from my own construction. I did not want to leave you with the mess.”
    “You have saddled me with a greater mess than a few pieces of wood. I dread to think what Menrod will have to say about this.”
    “Now, Miss Harris, don’t fret your pretty head. I will handle Lord Menrod if he cuts up stiff over getting a dandy new set of stairs at no cost.”
    “I most particularly wanted to have him in a good mood, too,” I said.
    This had to be explained to the inquisitive architect. He was displeased at the intelligence. “You mean to live with the youngsters, you say?” he asked, frowning.
    “My own sister’s children—what could be more natural?”
    “Did she leave them in your custody?”
    “I am not at all sure those legal arrangements had been made. Both Peter and Hettie were so young, they were not