Rose Trelawney Read Free Page B

France after Waterloo, gone in droves to see it anew after being rid of Bonaparte at last. ‘Now at last we can get to Paris!’ Someone was saying it to me—I could hear his voice. Oh speak louder, louder!
    “So France goes here,” Billie McKay said, shattering the memory, and nearly shattering Mulliner’s cardboard map by trying to push France in where it did not belong.
    “It’s eleven o’clock. Time for ‘rithmetic,” another said.
    Arithmetic! What a loathsome word. Some absolute demon named Wardle had collected a mass of impossible riddles and put them all into a green book to pester us. He added only the meagerest of clues to solve these riddles, too. Three barleycorns make an inch, four inches a hand, twelve inches a foot, and such unhelpful facts. How was one to deduce from that the area of a field shaped like a star? Impossible! No one in all of Great Britain surely possessed such an oddly-shaped field. I doubt one exists in the whole world. We dispensed with Arithmetic that day and read Dr. Johnson instead. Indeed we dispensed with Arithmetic entirely, till Mulliner found out what I was up to.
    Little as I knew about my past history, I knew I was not accustomed to receiving a dressing down from such an upstart as this man. My hot blood boiled. He preached to me of duty, when he was dumping his own duty in my lap, and so I told him. It was clear after I called him Jack Dandy that I must leave the rectory, but where to go? The Misses McCurdle, from nothing other than a vulgar sense of curiosity, offered me sanctuary. They thought I might be useful with a needle! I knew where I would jab any needle I held if I had to remain in the same house as that pair of harpies. They finally got in to see me. Mulliner sneaked them in one day I was at lessons with the boys. They took turns staring at me and asking questions: while one pried, the other scrutinized my gown, shoes, hair. It wouldn’t have greatly surprised me had they lifted my skirt to get a view of the famous petticoats. I would sooner have scrubbed cutlery or served ale at the local tavern than move in with that pair.
    After dinner I went into the saloon to peruse the papers—first for any article relating to myself, then for positions open for women. While at this chore, I heard a caller being announced. Not an unusual occurrence, but when the name Sir Ludwig Kessler was relayed to Mr. Mulliner, my interest perked up. I had heard much of Sir Ludwig during the ten days of my stay here. He was the local god, of more importance to Mulliner than the One above, as he held the living at St. Martin’s. I waited for them to enter, that I might see for myself the proud owner of Granhurst, the giver of a living to that old fake Mulliner, and why not a sinecure to Miss Nobody, as he was so rich? Miss Nobody had been christened temporarily Miss Smith, though was much wider known locally as ‘that woman.’
    Oh yes, I had become the resident freak. Mulliner ought not to have resented my presence. All three hundred and seventy-four of the locals and every farmer’s wife for miles around had come with a fitch of bacon or basket of bread to get a look at me. A pity none of them had brought sugar or butter. Mulliner had lately been hoarding them at his own end of the table, and failing to hear any request to pass them. Sir Ludwig was likely here to have a look at me as well, if the truth were known. I decided the price for a glimpse of Lady Lazarus, risen from her dead past, would be a position in his household. I would ask for it outright. I smoothed my hair and prepared an enticing smile, only to see the back of a shoulder being shown into Mulliner’s study. That wretch of a rector wasn’t going to let me meet Sir Ludwig. Not till he had turned him against me at least. The vanishing shoulder wore a drab greatcoat with many collars, denoting a gentleman of fashion. He was tall, dark-haired, and had, mercifully, a nice loud voice. If I sat in the chair next the