Free The Excellent Lombards by Jane Hamilton Page B

thick, because May Hill did not use this way for coming and going, of course not, because she’d then have to walk through Dolly’s kitchen. So it was dusty, and up at the top there was not another door, but a wooden gate. Dolly called Yoo-hoo , to let May Hill know we were approaching. Our hearts were beating wildly up those stairs, and harder yet when we couldn’t undo the latch of the gate. Amanda was scared, too. Let’s just forget it , we both thought. But then May Hill appeared, sliding the bolt easily and opening up, letting us through, the gate snapping shut.
    “Come,” she said without looking at us.
    Amanda grabbed my hand, which I was of two minds about. Without my shaking her off we followed Aunt May Hill down the dark hall, past closed doors, one after the next after the next, many small rooms rather than the grand downstairs rooms. May Hill’s portion after all had housed Sherwood and his siblings in the olden days, plus the parents, plus the orphan girl, enough sleeping space for eight people.
    The base line of a fugue from down below was clean and clear. “Dad’s pwacticing,” Amanda needlessly pointed out.
    The hall ended at the living room, the two long windows looking out over the north orchard. If everything that May Hill owned was shabby, all of her belongings were nonetheless arranged neatly. Underfoot was a thick old braided rug of many dark colors, and there was a blond, scratched-up coffee table, and a television on a rickety cart, and shelves sagging under the weight of books, and a corduroy sofa mostly covered up with a diamond-patterned orange-and-green afghan. It was hard to think that May Hill herself had been the crochet artist. The place smelled of coffee, which seemed funny. And apples, there was the fragrance of applesauce on the stove. It was maybe a home, that is, May Hill’s home, where for some reason—neither of us could think it through—we had happened to find ourselves.
    There was surprisingly nothing all that unusual in the living room unless you counted the eight card tables along the wall. Who owned that many card tables? They were set end-to-end, and they were covered with stacks of books bound in worn leather, and photographs in plastic sleeves, and a dagger, it looked like, and teaspoons, and a mink, the whole stuffed animal complete with toenails and the raisin nose and bright glass eyes. There were fragile-looking pieces of paper every inch filled up with faint cursive, and yellowed lace, and ivory kid gloves that a lady with slender fingers would have worn, and a pair of boots that buttoned up, to match. Each object was displayed as if the place were a museum.
    “Sit down, Mary Frances,” she said. Her indoor voice was husky but also soft. She had to clear her throat. “And Amanda,” she added. She pointed at the folding chairs that clearly had been put in place for the interview. My heart was still racing but I was able to think two things: She remembered our names, and mine especially because I’d been named for Mary Frances Lombard, a special great-aunt, a semi-famous violinist. A woman who, despite the name, was not a Catholic, as I also was not, something I occasionally had to say to adult acquaintances. At any rate, May Hill had given us enough thought to keep track of us, which was either good or bad. And number two: William was downstairs. We could always leap up and make a dash for it back to safety, if, that is, we could figure out how to open the gate.
    “Now then,” Aunt May Hill said. She rubbed her hands together, signaling readiness. Her fingers would not have fit into the lady’s gloves, but they were surprisingly thin. It seemed, even though it wasn’t true, that her lips, dry but fulsome, were for just a second turned up into something nearly like a smile. She appeared to be taller in her house and because she wasn’t wearing a hat or bandanna, an article that was always a part of her outside apparel, I could see her gray hair,