Post by Lorpius Prime on Apr 5, 2007 14:06:58 GMT -5
Fourth Interlude
When Margaret was 6 and Jay Thomson was 10 she’d gone storming out of the house one afternoon to find her brother. Wet grass and dirt clung to her little black buckled shoes as she walked. Their mother didn’t like her getting her shoes dirty but also didn’t like it when Margaret took off her shoes either. This confused Margaret to no end. Her flowered skirts swished around her knees.
Margaret’s brother was hiding in the orchard. She found him in the big tree, on the highest branch their father let them go on even though Margaret could climb the whole thing without falling off. His legs were in knee-socks and swinging idly.
She shoved her meaty fists into her hips like she’d seen Mother do and shouted, “You promised!”
Jay Thomson said nothing, he seemed to be staring at something way off.
Margaret tapped her foot impatiently, “Jay Thomson!”
He glanced down slowly, “Margaret Joyce.”
Margaret hated that name, “Don’t call me that!” she shrieked. “I’ll hit you!”
Her brother usually cringed at that threat; he was small and thin and didn’t know how to fight. Their parents didn’t like it when they fought, they said he shouldn’t because of the fever, but what was Margaret supposed to do when he wouldn’t listen to her?
This time, though, Jay Thomson just sort of gazed back up the way he had been before. Margaret stuck out her lower lip, “What are you looking at?” She couldn’t see anything but the other trees.
“Nothing,” he said a little hastily, but it was too late; Margaret was already making her way up the branches.
She hung her arms over the branch just above Jay Thomson and let the rest of her body swing loose. She looked over in the same direction as him, but there was nothing there except a hazy horizon.
“What is it? I don’t see anything.”
“It’s nothing, I told you.” He crossed his arms, then quickly had to use them to steady himself again.
Margaret frowned, “You said we’d play cricket!”
“I don’t want to, you cheat.”
“I do not!” She started trying to find her footing again so she could hit him.
“Do too.”
She stuck out her tongue at him, but he wasn’t looking. Margaret pouted.
The tree was boring. Margaret climbed up to a pair of higher branches where she could lie down.
She broke off a twig and threw it at his head, “Let’s go spy on the new butler.”
Jay brushed it out of his hair, “Dad says we shouldn’t.”
“But he talks funny.”
“You talk funny.”
“He walks funny too.”
“Dad says he was hurt in Bengal.”
“What’s Bengal?”
“I think it’s a country. It has tigers.”
Margaret tried to sound like a tiger; she’d never heard a tiger before but had seen pictures of them. “Maybe Rames has a tiger!”
Jay Thomson fidgeted, “I don’t think so.”
She dropped down a couple branches, “Let’s go see!”
“I don’t want to.”
Margaret hit him.
“Ow!”
“Let’s go see!” She hopped back onto the ground.
Jay Thomson groaned but climbed down from the tree, much more slowly than his sister.
Margaret skipped towards the house, “I bet Dad will be angry with Rames if we find his tiger!”
Her brother, still rubbing his shoulder, trudged after her.
Margaret Joyce Blake, who was now 23, thought she could still see the two children plodding off to cause trouble for the family’s butler. But her gaze was fixed blankly on the fog obscuring the trees in the distance beyond the estate. The big tree was quiet, it couldn’t tell her what she was looking at, and now she was the only one in the branches.
When the cab reached the manor the sun had still not climbed far above the tops of the trees. Martin Bozeman Holland twisted his cap onto his head and cautiously climbed out. His boots settled onto a thin layer of gravel covering soft ground.
Baron Blake paid the driver while Martin scanned the estate. It was comfortable, but not as extravagant as some he’d seem. Most of the attention seemed to go into the grounds rather than the house itself; there were well-trimmed bushes and colorful gardens. Martin could see what looked like a small horse paddock behind the manor house. At least, there was a well-groomed white horse chewing on grass behind a fence of the same color.
The driver was just steering his cab around to depart when three people came out of the house in their direction.
The first two were women, hurrying towards Blake and Martin in lightly colored dresses. Behind them, walking more slowly, was a nattily dressed man whom Martin figured for a servant.
When they got closer, Martin could see that the lead woman was the older, and he guessed from her slightly grayed hair that she would be the Blake’s wife. His suspicion was confirmed when she tearfully embraced the Baron.
“Edward! Oh, Edward…”
The other woman hung back a little. She was much younger and her dark hair fell in curls down her back. She watched silently as Baron Blake comforted his wife, then gave Martin a curious glance. He surmised that this would be Blake’s daughter, Margaret.
“Lily,” Blake was holding the crying woman by the shoulders now, “Lily it’s all right. This” he nodded to Martin, “this is Colonel Holland, from London. He says Jay Thomson’s still alive, Lily. He made it through the accident.”
The Baroness kept sobbing but looked up, “What?” She turned to Martin, still holding on to her husband, “He’s alive, then? Jay Thomson’s all right?” Here eyes were wide, watery, and desperate.
Martin nodded, “Yes madam. We are fairly confident your son survived the crash, along with two others.” The rest of the story could wait until they were inside.
Lily Blake burst into tears again and buried her head into the Baron’s shoulder. He put an arm on her back and started leading her up the path toward the house. The servant, an Indian, picked up Blake’s luggage and followed.
The girl waited for the elder Blakes to pass, then walked up to Martin. She had to tilt her head back a bit to meet his eyes, “He is all right? You know that for sure?”
Martin nodded again, “We received good information from the Prussian Army that three survivors were found in the woods near Augsburg, including your brother. You are Margaret Blake, if I’m not mistaken?”
She put a hand to her mouth, “Oh, no! My name is Stephanie Wilkinson, I’m just a friend. Margaret’s out back.”
Martin said nothing, but chided himself for making assumptions.
Martin quickly grew bored with the Blakes. The Baron was a self-important dullard and Martin had to resist the urge to correct his rather oversimplified understanding of the world and the politics in which he imagined himself an influential man. Lady Blake seemed to be stuck in a daze, and finally her husband led her away when she asked Martin to repeat his story for the third time.
He accepted a cup of tea from their dark-skinned butler and sighed, shaking his head.
“May I get you anything else, Colonel Holland?” the butler’s voice was of an unusual deep gurgling quality.
“No, thank you,” Martin sipped from the cup.
“Very good, sir.” He turned to leave the room.
“Oh, pardon me,” Martin held up a hand, but didn’t know the butler’s name.
“Yes, Colonel?” The man turned around anyway, though somewhat awkwardly given that he had a slight limp.
Martin didn’t speak for a moment. In the pause, he was able to take in more of the atmosphere of the house. It smelled like aged wood and countless cooked meals. The light was dim in the little space between the entry hall and parlor in which Martin stood, but the sun flooded through the great windows to his side.
When the moment passed, Martin made a little gesture with the teacup, “So what has it been like here, these last few days?”
“Lady Blake did not take the news well. Miss Margaret has taken it even worse. The staff has been worried. Thank God for Miss Wilkinson. And thank God for you, Colonel. Thank God.”
Martin nodded and the butler bowed his way out.
He sipped at the tea. It was too bitter.
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-
When Margaret was 6 and Jay Thomson was 10 she’d gone storming out of the house one afternoon to find her brother. Wet grass and dirt clung to her little black buckled shoes as she walked. Their mother didn’t like her getting her shoes dirty but also didn’t like it when Margaret took off her shoes either. This confused Margaret to no end. Her flowered skirts swished around her knees.
Margaret’s brother was hiding in the orchard. She found him in the big tree, on the highest branch their father let them go on even though Margaret could climb the whole thing without falling off. His legs were in knee-socks and swinging idly.
She shoved her meaty fists into her hips like she’d seen Mother do and shouted, “You promised!”
Jay Thomson said nothing, he seemed to be staring at something way off.
Margaret tapped her foot impatiently, “Jay Thomson!”
He glanced down slowly, “Margaret Joyce.”
Margaret hated that name, “Don’t call me that!” she shrieked. “I’ll hit you!”
Her brother usually cringed at that threat; he was small and thin and didn’t know how to fight. Their parents didn’t like it when they fought, they said he shouldn’t because of the fever, but what was Margaret supposed to do when he wouldn’t listen to her?
This time, though, Jay Thomson just sort of gazed back up the way he had been before. Margaret stuck out her lower lip, “What are you looking at?” She couldn’t see anything but the other trees.
“Nothing,” he said a little hastily, but it was too late; Margaret was already making her way up the branches.
She hung her arms over the branch just above Jay Thomson and let the rest of her body swing loose. She looked over in the same direction as him, but there was nothing there except a hazy horizon.
“What is it? I don’t see anything.”
“It’s nothing, I told you.” He crossed his arms, then quickly had to use them to steady himself again.
Margaret frowned, “You said we’d play cricket!”
“I don’t want to, you cheat.”
“I do not!” She started trying to find her footing again so she could hit him.
“Do too.”
She stuck out her tongue at him, but he wasn’t looking. Margaret pouted.
The tree was boring. Margaret climbed up to a pair of higher branches where she could lie down.
She broke off a twig and threw it at his head, “Let’s go spy on the new butler.”
Jay brushed it out of his hair, “Dad says we shouldn’t.”
“But he talks funny.”
“You talk funny.”
“He walks funny too.”
“Dad says he was hurt in Bengal.”
“What’s Bengal?”
“I think it’s a country. It has tigers.”
Margaret tried to sound like a tiger; she’d never heard a tiger before but had seen pictures of them. “Maybe Rames has a tiger!”
Jay Thomson fidgeted, “I don’t think so.”
She dropped down a couple branches, “Let’s go see!”
“I don’t want to.”
Margaret hit him.
“Ow!”
“Let’s go see!” She hopped back onto the ground.
Jay Thomson groaned but climbed down from the tree, much more slowly than his sister.
Margaret skipped towards the house, “I bet Dad will be angry with Rames if we find his tiger!”
Her brother, still rubbing his shoulder, trudged after her.
Margaret Joyce Blake, who was now 23, thought she could still see the two children plodding off to cause trouble for the family’s butler. But her gaze was fixed blankly on the fog obscuring the trees in the distance beyond the estate. The big tree was quiet, it couldn’t tell her what she was looking at, and now she was the only one in the branches.
* * *
When the cab reached the manor the sun had still not climbed far above the tops of the trees. Martin Bozeman Holland twisted his cap onto his head and cautiously climbed out. His boots settled onto a thin layer of gravel covering soft ground.
Baron Blake paid the driver while Martin scanned the estate. It was comfortable, but not as extravagant as some he’d seem. Most of the attention seemed to go into the grounds rather than the house itself; there were well-trimmed bushes and colorful gardens. Martin could see what looked like a small horse paddock behind the manor house. At least, there was a well-groomed white horse chewing on grass behind a fence of the same color.
The driver was just steering his cab around to depart when three people came out of the house in their direction.
The first two were women, hurrying towards Blake and Martin in lightly colored dresses. Behind them, walking more slowly, was a nattily dressed man whom Martin figured for a servant.
When they got closer, Martin could see that the lead woman was the older, and he guessed from her slightly grayed hair that she would be the Blake’s wife. His suspicion was confirmed when she tearfully embraced the Baron.
“Edward! Oh, Edward…”
The other woman hung back a little. She was much younger and her dark hair fell in curls down her back. She watched silently as Baron Blake comforted his wife, then gave Martin a curious glance. He surmised that this would be Blake’s daughter, Margaret.
“Lily,” Blake was holding the crying woman by the shoulders now, “Lily it’s all right. This” he nodded to Martin, “this is Colonel Holland, from London. He says Jay Thomson’s still alive, Lily. He made it through the accident.”
The Baroness kept sobbing but looked up, “What?” She turned to Martin, still holding on to her husband, “He’s alive, then? Jay Thomson’s all right?” Here eyes were wide, watery, and desperate.
Martin nodded, “Yes madam. We are fairly confident your son survived the crash, along with two others.” The rest of the story could wait until they were inside.
Lily Blake burst into tears again and buried her head into the Baron’s shoulder. He put an arm on her back and started leading her up the path toward the house. The servant, an Indian, picked up Blake’s luggage and followed.
The girl waited for the elder Blakes to pass, then walked up to Martin. She had to tilt her head back a bit to meet his eyes, “He is all right? You know that for sure?”
Martin nodded again, “We received good information from the Prussian Army that three survivors were found in the woods near Augsburg, including your brother. You are Margaret Blake, if I’m not mistaken?”
She put a hand to her mouth, “Oh, no! My name is Stephanie Wilkinson, I’m just a friend. Margaret’s out back.”
Martin said nothing, but chided himself for making assumptions.
* * *
Martin quickly grew bored with the Blakes. The Baron was a self-important dullard and Martin had to resist the urge to correct his rather oversimplified understanding of the world and the politics in which he imagined himself an influential man. Lady Blake seemed to be stuck in a daze, and finally her husband led her away when she asked Martin to repeat his story for the third time.
He accepted a cup of tea from their dark-skinned butler and sighed, shaking his head.
“May I get you anything else, Colonel Holland?” the butler’s voice was of an unusual deep gurgling quality.
“No, thank you,” Martin sipped from the cup.
“Very good, sir.” He turned to leave the room.
“Oh, pardon me,” Martin held up a hand, but didn’t know the butler’s name.
“Yes, Colonel?” The man turned around anyway, though somewhat awkwardly given that he had a slight limp.
Martin didn’t speak for a moment. In the pause, he was able to take in more of the atmosphere of the house. It smelled like aged wood and countless cooked meals. The light was dim in the little space between the entry hall and parlor in which Martin stood, but the sun flooded through the great windows to his side.
When the moment passed, Martin made a little gesture with the teacup, “So what has it been like here, these last few days?”
“Lady Blake did not take the news well. Miss Margaret has taken it even worse. The staff has been worried. Thank God for Miss Wilkinson. And thank God for you, Colonel. Thank God.”
Martin nodded and the butler bowed his way out.
He sipped at the tea. It was too bitter.
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-