"She never liked me," I said. "She never wanted me to be there."
"Taking a diamond brooch and blaming it on you is quite extreme though, isn't it?" He thought a moment. "Why wouldn't she just voice her objections and leave it at that?"
"You'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson," I said. "Does she know about the letter Victoria has written?"
My heart felt like it would shatter if he said yes. He gazed at the letter.
"Apparently, not. Victoria makes a point of asking me not to speak to Frances about it," he said.
"It doesn't surprise me," I said. "Mrs. Hudson would be even more enraged about it than I am. Excuse me for being logical, Mr. Endfield," I said, building my courage, "but what would I do with a big diamond jewel? Do you seriously believe I'm some sort of sophisticated thief who would know how to sell it? And where is all this money if I did do that? You and Mrs. Endfield know that the only money I have here came from Mrs. Hudson.
"Or, am I just to be considered some sort of kleptomaniac because I come from the ghetto and I happen to be a person of color?"
He looked at me and then at the letter.
"I don't know what to make of this," he said. "I'm only trying to do the right thing."
"What is the right thing? Making me feel like a criminal?" I pursued. "Doesn't a person have any rights here? After the way you spoke, I thought everything was so much better than it was in America, everyone was more civilized. This isn't very civilized," I hammered home.
Now, he blinked.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Maybe I was wrong, but I felt I had an obligation and you are living in my house."
"What is that supposed to mean? Because of what Victoria has written, you think I might steal from you as well?"
Before he could reply, I straightened up and with my arms folded under my breasts followed with, "Do you want me to leave? I'll pack and be out of here within the hour. Just ask Mrs. Endfield to advance me the rest of my money."
"Of course not. That isn't necessary, but I assure you, if it turns out you are a thief..."
"You'll have Boggs flog me," I said. "I know." He almost smiled.
"Please, accept my apologies for now. I will inform Victoria that there is no evidence of any sort of criminal activity and tell her to conduct her
investigation in another direction," he concluded.
"That's fine, but now, everyone here is going to think I'm a thief," I moaned.
"I told you. I assure you, Mr. Boggs will not so much as breathe in the direction of those thoughts."
"Sure," I said smirking. I pulled back my shoulders and held up my head high again. "I would like a lock on my door. I think I should have at least the most minimum privacy."
"I'll see that it is done," he assured me. "You can prepare for your regular evening duties, and we will not discuss this matter again, unless there is some good reason," he said and turned around in his chair.
I glared at him a moment and then I marched out. Mr. Boggs was nowhere in sight, but I knew he wasn't far away. No matter where I went in this house, I felt his eyes on me. Sometimes, I imagined I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.
When I returned to my room, I sat on my bed and stared at the wall. Why did my Aunt Victoria hate me so much? Was it simply jealousy, jealousy of my mother, jealousy of the affection Grandmother Hudson had for me now? Or was viciousness just a natural part of her identity? I was frustrated. I longed to stand in front of her and dare her to make the nasty accusations then.
I was so depressed about it all that I almost forgot to mention anything at dinner about my winning the role of Ophelia. Then, while we served the afters, which this night were individual jam tarts filled with almond paste, something Mrs. Chester called Bakewell tarts, I announced it just to make my great-uncle feel a little more horrible about what he had done.
"I thought you'd like to know I was given a choice part in the upcoming dramatics presentation. Once a month the school has an evening of theater, singing, dancing and chamber music. This one is a week from Saturday and I was given the part of Ophelia from Shakespeare's Hamlet."
"Oh, that does sound impressive, dear. Congratulations," my great-aunt declared with a clap. "Don't you think that's impressive, Richard?" she asked him. "Maybe we'll be able to attend:'
"Yes," he said. "Good show," he added, but he didn't look at me.
"I do hope you'll be able to attend," I said. "I'll be sure to get you tickets."
He didn't reply, but Great-aunt Leonora nodded and smiled widely. A moment later, she was moaning about her age spots. She had caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the silver dish and went on and on about the difficulties of growing old.