"I couldn't help but notice you didn't eat your porridge, probably on account of not knowing how." She glanced behind her and added, "I slipped a wee dram into the tea. I thought it might help, as I also couldn't help but notice that you're still a bit wobbly."
The plate held a coddled egg and a few slices of golden fried potato. Moments before, my stomach had been doing flips, but I was suddenly ravenous.
"But I thought eggs were rationed?" I said, glancing up.
"Aye, and butter, too, but we've hens and a cow at the croft. I nipped back and told Mhathair--that's my mother--that you were feeling poorly, and she said to give you this. She's also the midwife, so she knows such things. She says you're to start with the tea."
"Thank you. That's very kind. Please send her my regards."
Anna lingered, and then said, "Is it really the monster your husband is after? My cousin Donald's seen it, you know."
I looked up. "He has?"
"Aye, and his parents, too," she said, nodding gravely. "My Aunt Aldie and Uncle John were driving home from Inverness when they thought they saw a bunch of ducks fighting in the water near Abriachan, but when they got closer they realized it was an animal--a black beast the size of a whale--rolling, and plunging, and generally causing a right stramash." She illustrated with her hands.
"What happened then?"
"Nothing," she said simply. "It swam off."
"And your cousin?"
She shrugged. "There's not much to tell. He was a fisherman. Something happened one day when he was out on the loch, and he hasn't set foot on a boat since. And neither will he discuss it."
"What about your aunt? Do you think your aunt will discuss it?"
"I should think she'd blather your ear off, given the opportunity. Why don't you invite her for a strupag? And Mrs. Pennypacker? You were on the right track. You put the porridge on the spoon and then you dip the spoon in the milk. It keeps the porridge hot."
"I'm sorry I didn't eat it," I said. "Is it really a criminal offense to waste food?"
"Aye, several years since. But don't worry, the milk will go into the soup, and your porridge went into the drawer. Conall was that pleased to lick the bowl he wagged his tail. Do you think you'll be needing anything else? Only I need to get back to the croft. You might not think there's much to do in January, but you'd be wrong. There's clearing stones, cutting turnip for the sheep, the milking, oh, it goes on and on..." She stared into the distance and sighed.
"There's just one thing," I said. "I'd love to have a bath, but there's no hot water."
"There will be in about twenty minutes. I heard you banging around up there, so I lit the boiler. I'll take up some Lux flakes as well. You're only supposed to run the bath up to the line, but I think maybe this once you might run it deeper."
I couldn't take offense--she'd seen me moments after I'd quite literally fallen out of bed.
"I'm off then. Meg will be back from the sawmill around four. Now get that down you," she said, nodding authoritatively. "I've seen bigger kneecaps on a sparrow, and if Mhathair hears you didn't finish up that tea, it's the castor oil she'll be sending next."
--
Although the tea itself tasted like boiled twigs--I supposed it was ersatz--the "wee dram" helped so much that after my bath I lay down to have a rest. I was surprised to find myself drifting off, because I was excited. I couldn't wait to tell Ellis about Anna's relatives.
Several hours later, I floated out of my nap to the buzz of conversation and laughter rising from the main floor. I was surprised by the number of voices, since I knew we were the only staying guests, and decided the inn must also be a pub. I lit the candle, which Anna had replaced, and looked at my watch. It was evening, and I was hungry again. I hadn't had a proper meal since I left the States.
You're thin as a rail, Ellis had said.
I've seen bigger kneecaps on a sparrow, Anna had said.
I let my hands explore my belly--the hipbones that protruded sharply, the concave area between, the rib cage that loomed above.
Oh, Madeline. We really have to do something, my mother had said.
I was twelve and at first had no idea what she was talking about. I'd stepped out from behind the striped canvas of the changing tent on the beach at Bar Harbor and was breathless at the deep blue of the sky and even deeper blue of the ocean, at the laughter and shrieking of the children who played at the edges of the lapping surf, at the seagulls swooping and diving. I turned, alarmed at her tone. She shook her head sadly, but her eyes were hard. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she surveyed the parts of me that made me most self-conscious. They were the parts that were filling out but were not yet curvy. I was merely pudgy. I'd never felt a deeper shame in my life.
She'd have approved now, I thought, stretching my legs out. With my ankles and knees touching, my thighs never met. And then I thought, No, she wouldn't. No matter what I did or who I became, she would never have approved.
--
Hank's and Ellis's rooms were empty, so I headed downstairs. I assumed they'd returned, discovered I was asleep, and gone down for drinks. I was eager to tell them what I'd learned, sure they'd be pleased with me. Perhaps with the right type of persuasion, even Cousin Donald would tell his story.
As I stepped out of the shadow at the bottom of the stairwell, everyone fell silent. Hank and Ellis were nowhere to be seen, and other than Meg, I was the only woman in the room.
There were a dozen or so burly young men wearing khaki uniforms sitting at the tables, and about six older men in civilian clothes perched on stools at the bar. Every one of them was looking at me.
I girded myself, feeling the men's eyes upon me, and hoping they wouldn't think I was drunk as I made my way to the couch. Conall stared from his place by the hearth. He didn't raise his head, but his eyes darted and his whiskered brows twitched as I approached. At the end, when I sank onto the couch, I realized I'd only been slightly offbalance. I further realized that I had taken the stairs without incident, and then, with some alarm, that what I had thought was ersatz tea was almost certainly medicinal. While I wasn't happy about being dosed without my consent, I couldn't deny it had helped.
Meg was behind the bar, her hair carefully arranged in a cascade of red curls. I remembered the bits of rag tied in her hair the night before, and wondered if I could figure out how to do that. My own hair, still damp from my bath, was back under a turban.
Her periwinkle dress hugged her figure, and her lips and fingernails were scarlet. It was hard to believe she worked at a sawmill. She looked like a redheaded Hedy Lamarr. If she was at all open to Hank's advances, she didn't stand a chance. Hank would never be serious about a barmaid. He was so slippery he could barely bring himself to be serious about Violet. I had to find a moment to warn Hank off, and wished I'd said something that very first night.
"Can I get you something, Mrs. Pennypacker?" she called over. "A half pint? Or perhaps a sherry?"
"Nothing right now, thank you," I said, and at the sound of my voice the men exchanged glances. I didn't blame them--surely they were wondering how and why an American woman had materialized in their midst. A hot flush rose to my cheeks.
A young man sitting at a table with a glass of beer called out in an accent as flat and un-Scottish as my own, "Canadian or American?" and I found myself staring back with equal surprise.
Before I could answer, the front door opened and an elderly man came in, leaning on a walking stick.
He said to the room in general, "There's rain in it today."
"Aye, Donnie, that there is," said Meg from behind the bar. "A hauf and a hauf, is it?"
"Just a pint of heavy." He made his way to the last empty barstool.
She pulled a glass from beneath the counter and held it under a beer spigot. "There's game pie tonight," she said, "so you can keep your ration book in your pocket."
"Oh, that's grand, Meg," he said. He began to struggle out of his coat.
"Can I give you a hand?" s
he said, coming around to help.
"I'm in need of one, Meg, surely I am," he said, chuckling at his own joke. His empty sleeve was pinned up against his shirt. As Meg took his coat away, he climbed onto the stool. He raised his glass and turned toward the room. "Slainte!" he said.
"Slainte!" Everyone, young and old, lifted his glass.
At that moment, Ellis and Hank burst through the door, cheeks ruddy with the cold, coats and hats wet.
"--so if the ad runs on Friday," Ellis said, "we could potentially start getting responses on Tuesday. Meanwhile, we can revisit...the..." His voice petered out when he realized he was the center of attention.
Hank let his hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers like a cowboy ready to draw. Behind the bar, Meg picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the counter. Our black-bearded landlord appeared in the doorway that led to the back, wearing a heavy ribbed sweater in dark olive.
After a silence that seemed interminable, Old Donnie set his glass down and slid off his stool. He picked up his stick and hobbled slowly over.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
He stopped directly in front of Ellis. He was shorter by a whole head. He looked Ellis up and then down, and then up again, the skin of his neck stretching like a turtle's as he strained to see Ellis's face.
"You favor your father," he finally said.
"I beg your pardon?" said Ellis, draining of color.
"The monster hunter. From 'thirty-four. I'm not that addled yet." The broken capillaries in his face darkened. A fleck of spittle flew from his lips.
Meg's eyebrows darted up, and she glanced at Ellis. Then she resumed wiping the counter.
"Now Donnie," she said. "Come take a seat and I'll get your pie."
He ignored her. "I suppose it's the monster you're after, is it? Or are you going to float a balloon and take a snapshot like your old man?"
Ellis's face went from pale to purple in a split second.
The old man spun and hurried toward his coat, his gnarled stick banging on the flagstones. "I'll no be staying where this bastart is."
"Did he just say what I think he did?" Ellis said. "Did he just call me a bastard?"
"If he wasn't a cripple, I'd knock his block off," said Hank.
"Your mammie's his wife, then, is she?" said Old Donnie. "Only rumor has it he was an awful one for the houghmagandy."
"Now, Donnie," Meg said, sharply this time. "There's no call for that. Come have your pie."
"You'll excuse the language, but there's no other way to get to it," the old man said indignantly. "The pathetic creutair, trying to make striopaichean of honest girls up at the Big House, and not a shred of decency. And I don't suppose anyone will help me with my coat." This last was delivered as a statement, although he set his stick against the bar and straightened up, waiting.
Mr. Ross had been studying Ellis since Donnie's initial proclamation, but now he came around the bar and helped the old man into his coat. Donnie picked up his stick and stomped dramatically to the door before turning and declaring, "I'll not be darkening your door again, Angus. Not while this one's in residence."
Several seconds after the door closed behind him, someone said, "Well, I suppose Rhona won't mind not having to come collect him at the end of an evening." A swell of laughter rose, and the men returned to their conversations.
Meg came around the bar and put the radio on, fiddling with the lit dial until she first found Radio Luxembourg, with "Lord Haw-Haw" announcing in a perfect English accent, "Germany calling! Germany calling!"
She switched to static immediately, then moved the dial around until she finally found Bing Crosby, crooning about moonbeams and stars.
Ellis, whose face had finally settled on a terrible shade of gray, came and sat next to me.
"And that, my dear, is precisely why I used your maiden name," he said through gritted teeth.
Our landlord was once again studying him.
Chapter Ten
Ellis maintained a cool, silent facade through dinner, and excused himself immediately after. When I rose to go with him, he told me firmly to stay and enjoy my sherry.
I didn't want to stay, and there was certainly no enjoying to be done--all I could think about was what we'd do if we were given the boot for lying--but I knew he wanted me to remain behind and try to save face. I lasted only a quarter of an hour. When I left, Hank was grinding his teeth and white-knuckling his whiskey.
I knocked on Ellis's door.
"Go away!"
"It's me," I said, speaking into the crack. "Please let me in."
He barked something about not being fit for human company.
I went to my own room, hoping he'd change his mind and come to me. When the rest of the house had shut down and my candle had burned to a nub, I gave up and went to bed.
I lay on my back in the dark under a mountain of blankets listening to the rain pound the roof. I was wearing my two heaviest nightgowns but was still so cold I was dabbing my nose nonstop.
I had never heard the words striopaichean or houghmagandy before but deduced from the context that the former was what my mother-in-law believed my mother to be, and the latter was the activity that defined her as such.
I'd long thought of the Colonel as an irritating blowhard, but it had never occurred to me that he might also be a lecher. The mere thought of the Colonel making overtures to hapless young girls was horrifying. The pasty skin, the jiggling belly, the mustache yellowed by tobacco--
I hadn't noticed it before, but if Ellis were bald, forty years older, sixty pounds heavier, and had an alcoholic nose, he would look very much like the Colonel.
No wonder Ellis hadn't felt fit for human company. Learning that he was going to age like the Colonel must have been a terrible blow, yet there was no denying it, since Old Donnie had identified him as the Colonel's son the first time he laid eyes on him. But there were ways of delaying the transformation with diet and exercise--even hairpieces, if necessary--and there was time to worry about that later. We had a more immediate problem to address.
I flipped back the covers and fumbled in the dark for the matches, lighting my last inch of candle.
A moment later, I was in the hallway, standing outside his door. As I raised my hand to knock, the door to Meg's room clicked open and a heavy-shouldered figure slipped out.
I jumped backward, muffling a gasp.
The man was tall and had prominent ears, but by candlelight I couldn't see much else. He glanced at me, turned up his coat collar, and slipped into the inky black of the stairwell. I rapped quickly on Ellis's door.
"Ellis! Ellis!" I said urgently, looking down the hallway. "Let me in!"
A moment later the door opened and his face appeared in the crack. "What's the matter? Is it your heart? Do you need a pill?"
"No, I'm fine," I said, irritated that he'd automatically jumped to that conclusion.
"You didn't sound fine."
I glanced one last time down the hall and decided not to say anything about the man leaving Meg's room.
"I am. I'm fine," I said, "but we need to talk."
"About what?"
"You know what. Can I please come in? I'd rather not do this in the hallway."
After a flicker of hesitation, he held the door open. By the light of my candle, I saw that his room was in roughly the same condition as mine, with his belongings strewn all over the floor.
"Watch your step," he said, sweeping his hand toward the mess.
I made my way to the bed and set the candle on the table. When I climbed under the covers, Ellis said, "What are you doing?"
I felt like he'd kicked me in the stomach. "I'm just getting warm. Don't worry. I won't stay."
He exhaled through puffed cheeks and ran a hand through his hair. Finally, he closed the door and walked to the far side of the bed. He lay on top of the covers with his arms over his chest, stiff as a slab of marble.
"You could at least have brought me a pill," he said.
/> "I can go get one."
"Never mind," he said.
A few minutes later, when it became apparent he wasn't going to address the issue at hand, or any other, I asked, "What are we going to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Where are we going to go? We can't stay here."
"Of course we can. Why wouldn't we?"
"Because we checked in under a fake name."
Ellis exploded, sitting bolt upright and slamming his fists on the quilt so hard I recoiled. "It's not a fake name. It's your maiden name, as I explained to you earlier, so what, exactly, is your point?"
"My point is that I'm terrified we're going to be tossed out onto the street!" I said in a harsh whisper. "And I'm sorry you're upset, but you have no right to take it out on me. None of this is my fault."
"So it's my fault, is it?"
"Well, I certainly didn't do anything."
The wind howled down the chimney. The window rattled in its pane.
"I'm sorry about the old man tonight," I said. "The whole thing was dreadful."
Ellis was suddenly yelling again: "I've half a mind to have him arrested! It's slander and libel and God only knows what else, making ridiculous, groundless accusations against someone who's not even here to defend himself. My father would never, ever--"
"I know!" I said, interrupting him in a whisper, hoping that it would encourage him to lower his tone. I laid a hand on his arm. "I know."
In fact I did not know. Was he incensed about the accusations of womanizing, or the accusations of fakery? Or because he, himself, had been caught in a lie?
The rain picked up and changed direction, battering the glass like someone was flinging buckets of nails against it. Water dripped sporadically down the chimney and onto the grate, an occasional heavy plonk.
Ellis lay back down.
I was infinitely sorry I'd come and was about to climb from the bed when he suddenly rolled to face me, catching me off guard.
"Well," he said, "to answer your question, I certainly hope we can stay. There isn't anywhere else to go."
"Maybe we can move to the estate? I'm a little surprised we didn't go there in the first place."
"I rather suspect they got their fill of Hydes back in 'thirty-four, don't you?"
"Oh, I don't know. Your father is hardly the first man to try it on with a servant. Anyway, you're family."