The Affairs of Harriet Walters, Spinster Page 3

  Rounding a corner, she came upon a charming scene: the path led up a gentle incline to a dainty bridge with a miniature Grecian temple perched on the hill behind it. Harriet strolled over the bridge, pausing to watch the crystalline water tumbling over the stones on the brook’s bottom, before climbing the slope to the temple. She passed through the portico and found a filigree iron bench to rest upon. The view through the doorway was quite pretty.

  “The garden is certainly pleasant,” she thought. “My aunt must have employed an architect to do this ‒ I certainly do not see her sour hand in its design. It’s comforting to know that all of this awaits outside if I can but escape the house.”

  Abandoning the temple, Harriet followed the path until it ended in an apple grove, enclosed on three sides by an ivy-covered stone wall. She lingered among the dripping trees, relishing the air’s earthy scent. The boughs, heavy with fruit, formed a dome overhead that filtered the morning light. Harriet plucked a ripe-looking specimen and sank her teeth into its crisp skin. Munching as she picked her way through the trees, she eventually came to the wall. She could hear children’s voices outside in the street and laughed, wondering if these were some of the young “ruffians” from the grammar school that her aunt had warned her against. Their chattering voices drew closer, and then stopped. Harriet was about to stroll away again when she heard a scrabbling sound on the far side of the wall. She froze; it sounded as if someone were scaling it.

  As she watched, a hand fumbled for the top of the wall, and a leg was flung over. Harriet panicked. What should she do; confront the intruder, or run away? A second hand followed the first, and she darted into the shadows behind a tree. She pressed her back to the trunk, her heart thumping in her chest. What if the intruder were a very large boy, or more than one boy was coming over the wall? How could her aunt expect her to single-handedly expel a mob of unruly boys?

  All was still, and then she heard a "thud". Taking a firmer grip on her cowardice, Harriet peered from behind the tree.

  A diminutive boy, no more than seven or eight years of age, crouched in the sunlight next to the wall. With his blond, curly hair and rosy cheeks, he looked more like a cherub than the devil his behaviour suggested. He was dressed in the breeches, white shirt, and grey jacket of the boys' grammar school, a uniform that Harriet had seen on a group of much bigger boys during her first day in the village.

  The child surveyed his surroundings before straightening from his crouch. "I've done it," he called to his confederates on the other side of the wall. "I'm in the orchard."

  "Watch out, Oliver, don't let the old lady catch you. She said she'd have the constable arrest anyone she caught trespassing in her orchard again." A chorus of jeers followed this remark.

  Oliver's eyes grew large, and he swallowed. "Right," he said to himself. Leaving the relative safety of the wall, he ventured into the orchard. Harriet slid to another tree, wanting to see what the child would do next. He passed close by, his eyes on the ground, searching for apples. The rain had driven some of the riper fruit from their branches, and he picked up one after another, examining each apple before stuffing a few into his pockets.

  Heavy branches creaked above his head, and his eyes rose to consider them. The closest branch was some seven feet off the ground, much too high for Oliver's reach. Harriet watched as he calculated the distance to the first branch of the closest tree before running to its base. His arms were too short to encircle the trunk as he grasped the rough bark and leapt upward. He hung by his arms and knees for a moment before straining to climb higher. Harriet watched him slowly work his way upward until he was just below the branch. The fingers of one small hand strained forward, trying to grasp it. Harriet snuck closer until she was below the branch, concerned that the fragile-looking child might fall. He seemed to give up, hanging by both hands for a moment, but suddenly let go and launched himself at the branch. Harriet gasped, Oliver's startled eyes met hers, and then he missed the branch and fell, crashing onto the uneven ground.

  Harriet ran to the child and dropped onto her knees beside him. His eyes were closed and he did not seem to breathe. She touched his face; he inhaled sharply, and his eyes popped open in terror.

  "Don't call the constable, lady! I promise I'll give back the apples. I only took the spoiled ones."

  With the boy scrambling to get up, Harriet noticed a trickle of blood dripping from the back of his neck onto his collar. He teetered, and she caught him as he fell. Oliver stared at her, and then screamed and struggled in her arms.

  "Help! Help me, somebody, the old lady's got me!

  "No, no, it's all right. I'm not going to hurt you," Harriet said, trying to hold him still until she could determine the extent of his injuries. The other boys screamed Oliver's name outside on the street.

  A man's voice abruptly shouted back, "I'm coming, Oliver!"

  Panicking, Harriet released the child and jumped to her feet. She stared as a man scrambled over the wall, lowered himself by his arms, and jumped the last foot to the ground. He was tall, spare, and young, dressed in a scholarly black gown atop a tweed suit. Bare-headed and dishevelled, he spotted Harriet with the boy at her feet and ran pell-mell toward them.

  "Hey, what do you think you're doing there!" he shouted. Harriet shrank back as he reached them, shooting one furious glance at her before crouching beside the child.

  "What happened, Oliver? Are you hurt?" He caught sight of the blood on the boy's collar and said, "You are hurt." Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he shook it out and pressed it against the wound.

  "I'm fine, sir," Oliver said, struggling to sit up. The young man helped him into a sitting position with Harriet hovering beside them.

  "Did you hit him?" the man demanded, glaring at her before gently parting the boy's hair. Oliver winced.

  "What? No, of course not. He hurt himself falling out of a tree," Harriet sputtered.

  The man spared her a withering glance before turning back to the boy's wound. "Does your head hurt, Oliver?"

  "No, sir."

  "Can you stand?"

  "I think so."

  The man stood and helped Oliver to his feet. He ran his hands up and down the boy's limbs, searching for other injuries.

  "Shall we take him back to the house? I can fetch a doctor," Harriet suggested.

  “No, I don't think that's necessary. The primary injury seems to be a superficial cut on the neck. You've got some scrapes on your hands, though, Oliver. How did you come by them?"

  The child hung his head. "Climbing up the tree, sir. I was climbing it when the lady screamed, and I fell."

  "I see." The young man turned to Harriet. "It would seem that you were telling the truth."

  "Of course I was telling the truth, Mr. . . ?" Harriet said with indignation.

  "Mr. Ash. I'm the history master at the boys' school."

  "Well, Mr. Ash, that's exactly what happened. How dare you think that I would strike a child."

  "I apologize, Miss …?. Only, the way that the other boys were screaming, I thought that Oliver was being attacked."

  "When in fact he was trespassing in the orchard to steal apples," Harriet said with a stony expression.

  "I know, and I'm very sorry. The headmaster has warned the boys against trespassing on Mrs. Slater's property, but young Oliver can't seem to resist a dare, no matter how foolish it is. Mrs. Slater is quite a tartar, so I hope that you will find it in your heart not to report this to your employer. I will see to it that Oliver is suitably punished for his transgression."

  "To my employer?" Harriet said, really fuming now. "Who do you take me for? To my aunt, you mean." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the schoolmaster, who stared back at her in dismay. Oliver looked from one adult to the other.

  "I did not know that Mrs. Slater had a niece visiting with her."

  "Living with her, sir. I am living with Mrs. Slater."

  "It would seem that I am behind in the village gossip. I am truly sorry if I
have offended you, Miss . . . ?"

  "Walters!" Harriet snapped. "I'm in mourning. And my dress is perfectly adequate."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Yes, the shoes are old, but it's been raining, and I didn't want to spoil my other pair."

  "No, of course not. And you look fine, Miss Walters. My condolences on your loss."

  "Humph," she said, pushing the hair out of her face.

  "Perhaps Oliver and I should be going."

  "Yes, I really think that you should."

  "But before we do, I wish to apologize again for Oliver's trespass, and for anything I might have said in the heat of the moment that offended you."

  "I'm very sorry, Miss. I promise I shall never do it again," Oliver added in a pleading tone.

  Harriet glanced down at his small, anxious face, and half-smiled. "I'm sure that you won't, Oliver, and I'm glad that you didn't hurt yourself too badly by falling out of the tree."

  "Oh, that was nothing. My ma says I've got more lives than a cat."

  "Really," she said with a larger smile. "I'm glad to hear that."

  "Yes, she said that all her other children put together don't get in as much trouble as I do. She said that . . . ."

  "That's enough, Oliver. We've taken up enough of Miss Walters' time," the schoolmaster said, taking the boy by the arm. "I wish that we could have met under more pleasant circumstances, Miss Walters, and I hope that you will forgive my churlishness when you consider this incident, and not report it to your aunt." He smiled hopefully, and Harriet noticed that he had fine hazel eyes that crinkled quite attractively when he smiled.

  "Well, no harm has been done, and Oliver has learned his lesson, I should think, so I see no point in bothering my aunt with this matter."

  Oliver beamed and Ash nodded gratefully. "Thank you, you are all kindness. We will leave you now so that you can get on with your day. This way, Oliver." Ash took the boy's hand and headed toward the wall, only to stop and come back again. Harriet sighed in exasperation, wishing that the incident were over.

  "Now what?" she growled.

  "We'll just be leaving the other way ‒ through the gate, if you don't mind," Ash said with a rueful smile.

  "Yes. Fine. Good day to you, sir," Harriet said, turning her back on them and heading for the house.

  Chapter Six

  That evening, Harriet and her aunt drove the few blocks to Mrs. Evans’ home. Situated at the top of the main street, it was the grandest house in Rexton, a three-storey, honey-stone edifice with an iron gate surrounding the property. The carriage passed through the gates and round the circular drive to the front entrance. A footman hastened to assist them from the carriage, and a butler responded to their knock at the front door.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Slater,” he said, a thin man with a balding head, bowing.

  “Good evening, Rogers. I believe that Mrs. Evan is expecting us?”

  “Yes, madam. Please follow me.” Harriet and Aunt Edna followed Rogers down a spacious hallway and into the drawing room, where Mrs. Evans rose to greet them. The room was too comfortable to be considered elegant; the furniture was over-stuffed and scattered in casual groupings about the room, and cheerful bouquets of garden flowers were displayed on every table. A great slate fireplace with a substantial fire blazing within gave the room a handsome focal point.

  “How are you this evening Edna, Miss Walters? Please sit down and be comfortable,” their hostess said. “Dinner will be ready shortly. Can I offer you a glass of Madeira?”

  “I will take a glass,” Aunt Edna responded, settling herself on a sofa in close proximity to the fire. Rogers returned with a wine decanter and three crystal glasses, pouring out the wine and serving the ladies.

  “Have you managed to go outdoors much over the past two days, Miss Walters?” Mrs. Evans inquired as she accepted a glass from the butler. “It has been disagreeably wet and cool.”

  “She went for a long walk in the garden today,” Aunt Edna said, taking a generous sip from her glass. “The hem of her gown was disgraceful when she returned. I do not understand why anyone would want to go walking after a rain before the puddles have dried up.”

  “No doubt an energetic nature like yours grows impatient with confinement, Miss Walters?”

  “Yes. It was a beautiful morning, and I wished to explore my aunt’s garden. It's been years since I've seen it.”

  “I can understand that. Did the garden meet your expectations?" Aunt Edna sniffed, and her friend turned to smile at her.

  “Yes, the garden was wonderful, and walking in the apple grove was also enjoyable. The air was delicious after the rain, and the trees are so fine and sturdy. There will be an abundant crop this year.”

  “You’re right about that, Harriet. Mabel, there will be plenty of apples to press into cider if you wish to keep to our usual arrangement?” Aunt Edna interjected.

  “That will suit me fine, Edna. Let's keep to our usual arrangement. You see, Miss Walters, Edna and I exchange apples for hazelnuts when the crops are too abundant for our own needs.”

  “That sounds like a beneficial arrangement.”

  “Yes, it works out well. I believe that Cook has made a hazelnut torte for dessert tonight. She has developed a variety of ingenious ways to use up the nuts over the years, including a particularly delicious hazelnut praline candy.”

  “I look forward to dessert then, Mrs. Evans.”

  The lady bent her head toward Harriet. “Yes, it’s a shame that we have to bother with the soup and the other courses when I would rather begin with the torte,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  Rogers arrived to announce that dinner was ready. “Shall we go in?” asked Mrs. Evans, shepherding her guests into the dining room.

  The rest of the week passed quietly for Harriet. She occupied herself with exploring the village and calling upon the remaining widows on her list. She always carried a homemade offering from her aunt’s pantry on these calls, and came away with vegetables or flowers from her hostesses’ gardens. Harriet still felt awkward on these visits, but the elderly women seemed glad of her company, and she was satisfied that her efforts were appreciated.

  Sunday arrived, and Harriet accompanied her aunt to church. She had been looking forward to seeing the church interior since first setting eyes on it. One of Harriet’s great pleasures in life was to tour old churches and tumbled-down ruins, her mind imagining what life had been like in the days when these structures had been new.

  St. Michael’s was a stone building of middling size, built in the fourteenth century. Stone gargoyles grimaced down from the bell tower on those passing beneath. Entering the nave’s dim interior, Harriet estimated that there was room to accommodate some two hundred people inside. She appreciated the beautifully carved wooden pews and the pulpit decorated with plump, painted cherubs. A jewel-toned, stained-glass window depicting the Archangel Michael’s triumph over the serpent was installed above the altar.

  As Harriet’s eyes rose toward the vaulted ceiling, Aunt Edna whispered, “Watch where you’re going, Niece. Don’t be gawking all about." Harriet lowered her eyes and obediently followed her aunt into the Slater family stall. Mrs. Evans was already seated in the next stall, and gave Harriet a cheery little wave as Aunt Edna bowed her head in prayer. Harriet smiled and nodded back before glancing around the congregation. Occasionally, she caught the eye of someone she knew, and was rewarded with a welcoming nod or smile.

  Sitting back in her pew, Harriet opened the hymnal to the first song and was humming it under her breath when a commotion broke out at the rear of the church. A group of some fifty schoolboys of assorted sizes and ages, overseen by five male adults, came trouping inside. Mr. Ash, dressed in a dark brown suit and carrying his hat, was part of their company. His hair was combed and his face suitably solemn, giving him a very different appearance from the tousled-haired, chagrined young man Harriet had last seen leaving the orchard.

  He led his charges into a pew and, taking his place a
mong them, bowed his head in prayer. Harriet watched as he turned to shush some boys whispering beside him, and then caught his eye as he faced forward again. Harriet acknowledged him with a cool nod and averted her gaze. As her eyes swept past the congregation, Mrs. Evans smiled at her, and Harriet wondered if she had caught the exchange. Then the minister and his attendants began processing up the aisle, and Harriet focused her attention on the liturgy.

  It was a lively service, punctuated with shuffling feet, sniffles, whispers, and “hushes” from the grammar school pews. Aunt Edna glared over her shoulder at one particularly loud sneeze, causing Harriet to hide a smile behind her prayer book. When some of the older boys and all of the adults came forward at Communion, Harriet watched for Mr. Ash out of the corner of her eye. His head was bowed in prayer as he went by, and Harriet made certain to be engrossed in her hymnal when he headed back to his pew.

  Aunt Edna leaned over to whisper, “I mean to speak to the headmaster before he gets away after service, so we must leave as soon as the last hymn is finished. Don’t take too long greeting Reverend Simons at the church door, Harriet.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Before the echoes of the final hymn had dyed away, Aunt Edna was on her feet and marching her way down the aisle. She dodged around the slower-moving parishioners, forcing Harriet to trot to keep up with her. She said a perfunctory, “Good morning, Reverend,” before hurrying through the door, the minister still rising from his bow as she breezed past him.

  “Mr. Harris, Mr. Harris, a word with you!” Aunt Edna cried as she pushed through the crowd of milling boys who had spilled out of the church the moment they were released. A slight, white-haired man turned in answer to her hail. He fixed a smile upon his face and came forward to greet her. Harriet noticed Mr. Ash pause to watch as the headmaster and her aunt drew together. His eyes sought Harriet, but he looked away when he saw her watching him.