Free Friends and Lovers by Joan Smith Page B

might see them as often as I wished. He would not have hired a governess yet, I assume, so they will not be at their books.”
    “Oh, no, Miss Harris, not yet. He has gone up to London for the purpose,” the butler told me.
    “Did he say how long he would be gone?”
    “He will return as soon as his business is complete—a few days, he mentioned.”
    “Who is looking after the children in the meanwhile?”
    “Mrs. Butte, the housekeeper, has them in her charge. They are with some of the servant girls at the moment, having a game of skittles.”
    The children were not so happy as one could have wished to be taken away from their game. “Good afternoon, Auntie,” Gwen said. Ralph said nothing. He crossed his ankles and stuck his thumb into his mouth, a trick I had not noticed before. I told him to remove it and get his jacket to come with me for a drive.
    “Where are we going?” Gwen asked.
    “To visit your grandma,” I answered.
    “Does she have some cakes today?”
    “Of course she has. If you are very good, we shall give you some.”
    The bribe got them out the door without resorting to violence, though Gwen had the poor manners to mention twice more that she was enjoying the game of skittles very much, and winning too.
    They were made as welcome as the prodigal son at the cottage, where Mama and Pudge awaited their arrival. Mrs. Pudge was even then laboring over a plum cake to please them.
    “May we have the cake now?” Gwen asked, when she had been seated for two minutes.
    “It is only three o’clock,” I pointed out.
    “You said we could have some, Auntie,” she reminded me.
    Ralph stuck his thumb in his mouth and rested his head on the upholstered arm of the chair he sat in. “That is no way for a little gentleman to behave in company,” I told him.
    “Ralph is hungry,” his sister told me, wearing a sly little smile. Hettie had used to have a very similar expression, which had faded from my memory over the years. Nature is kind; she lets us hold onto what is dear, and fades the less beguiling memories.
    “Then Ralph shall have an apple,” I answered.
    “Uncle Menrod lets us have cake,” she answered.
    “Does he give you sweets whenever you want them?” I asked, thinking I might have a bit of poor rearing practice here for Culligan to use. A despicable trick, I know, but this was war.
    “No, he doesn’t,” Ralph said dismally. “He makes us eat gruel for breakfast, and beefsteak for lunch. It will make us strong.”
    “Can we play skittles till teatime?” was Gwen’s next speech.
    “We do not have any skittles, dear. Would you like to look at some books instead?” I asked.
    “I don’t like books. Have you got any more of Mama’s dolls?”
    “No, I gave you her only doll. Do you like to draw?”
    This proved acceptable. For full five minutes she sat and drew, insisting at every stroke of the pen that we all gather and admire her squiggles. The child was deplorably spoiled; she required a firm hand, and I had one ready and willing to trim her into line, but first I must cozzen her along by more pleasant manners. After ten minutes, Mama had the inspired idea of sending her to the kitchen to help Mrs. Pudge make the cake. I breathed a sigh of relief to see the back of her, tossing her curls as she hastened out.
    My interest then turned to Ralph. “Can I go to the stables?” he asked timidly.
    “Let us wait till after tea.”
    “After tea we will be going home.”
    “Not immediately after tea. Would you like to stay here tonight, Ralph?” Mama asked.
    He considered this a while. “No, thank you, Grandma,” he answered, but not in his sister’s saucy way. “I am learning to ride the wooden horse Uncle Menrod got me. I will go home and ride it after tea. Uncle says when I learn to ride like a proper cavalier, he will get me a real pony.”
    “Not for a few years, I hope!” Mama exclaimed.
    “Papa was riding when he was four.”
    “That is much too young. It is