pronounced limp. It looked like his right leg was shorter than his left. When he stepped down on his left foot, his right leg rose and fell almost as if it was a loose appendage he had to swing around. He was a tall, thin man easily about six feet four with curly brown and gray hair like one of the Marx Brothers. His face was long with a narrow chin so far below his lip it looked like it was slowly dripping away as he grew older. He had delicate lips that were tucked down in the corners and eyes set deeply in his skull. I thought he resembled a man who had once been so terrified by something that fear seized his features and froze them in this look of habitual shock. He waited alongside the car for Boggs to come around and open the door for Great-aunt Leonora.
"Get the bags out of the boot," Boggs snapped at him. The butler bobbed his head like a horse and started around to the trunk of the car. Boggs helped Great-aunt Leonora out and then stood back as I emerged.
"This is Rain Arnold, Leo," Great-aunt Leonora told the butler. He poked his head around the trunk lid and struggled to produce a weak smile. When he glanced at Boggs, who glared at him so fiercely, Leo moved more quickly. No one seemed to care or even see how he struggled with it all. Boggs didn't make any attempt to help.
"There she is," Great-aunt Leonora cried when the maid appeared in the doorway. To me it seemed like the butler and the maid had been waiting at the front windows to watch for our arrival. "Mary Margaret will show you to your quarters, dear."
I looked at the petite young woman who stared at me with interest in her soft blue eyes. She looked childlike and stood no more than four feet eleven at most. Her facial features were as perfect as a doll's and as diminutive. Against her dark blue uniform blouse, her small bosom looked to be no more than a pair of preadolescent bumps. She was so fragile, her wrists so narrow, I wondered how she could be anyone's servant. I thought she began to smile, but when she glanced at Boggs, she stopped her lips from curving and an icy fear slid over her eyes. Instead, she did a small dip of a curtsey and stepped back.
Behind us, Leo groaned and squeezed one of my suitcases between his arm and the side of his body, adjusting his hip bone to keep the luggage in place. The weight of the other two pulled his shoulder down so that the lines in his neck became embossed against his pale white skin as he clenched his teeth with the effort to hold on to them. Still, Boggs didn't offer him any help, and I was afraid to say a word.
"Mary Margaret will find you a proper uniform after she shows you your quarters, dear, and then, Boggs will describe your duties to you. Well, don't just stand there like some waxwork, Mary Margaret. Say hello to her. She doesn't bite, you know," Greataunt Leonora said.
Mary Margaret's eyes went from her to me. "Hello," she said barely above a whisper. "Hi." I gave her my best smile, but she looked
down and waited. We entered the house. I was immediately surprised at how dark the corridor was. The walls were a shade of burgundy. There were pictures everywhere, all dark oils hung in dark frames. A gray rug lined the entryway floor and a very dim chandelier hung from the ceiling. Ahead of us was a staircase that wound to the right. It had a mahogany balustrade, but the steps looked like stone. When I drew closer, I saw they were actually covered in a thin silvery gray carpet.
Mary Margaret started into the house with Leo banging my luggage into the door frame behind us. He was really straining, yet still no one apparently cared. It seemed I was the only one who even noticed.
"Wait," Great-aunt Leonora cried as I started after Mary Margaret. "I've decided to show Rain the house first. That way it will be easier for her when Boggs describes her duties. As soon as you settle her in, Mary Margaret, you'll take her to see Mrs. Chester and get her some tea."
"Yes, mum," Mary Margaret said, followed by the dropping of her eyes as if Great-aunt Leonora was some royal person who wasn't supposed to be gazed at directly. She added a tiny curtsey like a punctuation mark after responding, again.
"Over here is the drawing room," Great-aunt Leonora said.
I gazed in without stepping through the doorway. There was a small fireplace with a white marble mantel. Around the room were a variety of Romantic paintings and some portraits of dourlooking women and stern-looking men in gray wigs. The windows were draped in cream silk curtains and every table, every available space in fact, was occupied with some artifact, bric-a-brac, vases, pewter figures, or miniatures. There were footstools in front of the chairs and the furniture was done in a dark brown chintz. Against the wall to my right was a tall, dark oak grandfather's clock with the hands stuck on twelve.
"All these pictures were collected by my husband's ancestors. The National Gallery would like to get their hands on them," she added with a small laugh.
"Here," she continued moving down the hallway, "is our dining room."
Again, I stood back like someone at a museum being given a lecture and shown precious antiques which were to be looked at only and never touched. I felt as if there was an invisible velvet rope between me and every piece of furniture, every work of art, every statue. Great-aunt Leonora was as
knowledgeable as a museum guide.
"Our dining room is built around a mantel inspired by one that was brought to Buckingham Palace from Brighton. The wallpaper was painted with decorations based on an eighteenth-century pattern, you know. Our dining room chairs have been done in Bertram and Els chair fabrics. They are all the rage these days. That chandelier," she said, nodding toward the ceiling at a crystal and green glass chandelier, "comes from Russia, We recently had those French doors installed so we can enjoy the spring and summer air while we dine."
The doors looked onto the garden which was in full bloom.
She showed me what she called the formal living room and told me the Bessarabian carpet was worth thousands and thousands of pounds. There was a baby grand piano with some sheet music opened on it as if someone had just played. All the furnishings were in dark patterns and the room itself looked as unused and as untouched as a showcase in a furniture store window.
I was truly impressed by the library. It was cluttered with art and valuable-looking objects just like the other rooms, but the library was literally filled to the brim with books in built-in bookcases on every wall. I didn't think one more volume of anything could be added. The shelves went to the ceiling and there was a ladder that could be pushed along to get access to any book.
"Richard is very proud of his rare book collection," Great-aunt Leonora said. "Most of what you see here are first editions, some going back as far as the early nineteenth century. He has original Dickens, Thackeray, Samuel Johnson, George Eliot. You name the author, Richard has something of his or hers," she added with a tiny laugh that sounded more like the tinkle of small bells.
The library windows were also draped in silk. There was a velvet sofa with a matching chair. At the far end of the library was a large oak desk. Everything on the top of it was well organized. Whatever wood showed through gleamed with fresh polish.
"This is the only sexist part of our home," Great-aunt Leonora declared as she presented the next room that contained a large pool table. "The billiards room is truly for men only. Who wants to come out smelling like a tobacco plant anyway?"
We glanced at it for a few seconds, but it was long enough for me to get a strong whiff of the cigars that were smoked in it recently.
As we moved through the house, looking in on each room, I wondered how someone as f
ragile and small as Mary Margaret could keep up with it all. What a feasting ground for dust, I thought, with all these pieces of art, little statuary, glass figurines, and pewter.
Trailing behind us during this tour was Leo with my suitcases and Mary Margaret at his side. Boggs remained in the entryway standing like a sentry. Suddenly, Great-aunt Leonora spun around and clapped her hands.
"I've decided to show you some of the upstairs. Everyone else can wait here," she declared. I glanced at Mary Margaret, but she wouldn't look directly at me either. Her eyes shifted so that she looked at a blank wall space between two oil paintings of country scenes.