Auntie Mayhem by Mary Daheim Page B

tinned tuna if she didn’t dole out the money. We’re like marionettes, jerked about on strings. We wish she were dead because as long as she’s alive, we’re her hostages. Well?” Nats’s small, molded chin shot up. “We are, aren’t we?”
    Nobody said a word.

FOUR
    I T WAS WITH some trepidation that Judith and Renie ascended via the turret backstairs to the tower bedroom where Petulia Ravenscroft was ensconced. Between the unflattering portrait of Aunt Pet and the embarrassing exchange in the dining room, the cousins felt as if they were about to enter the lair of a dragon.
    Nor did their first encounter reassure them. The tiny, decrepit maid who showed them into Aunt Pet’s suite was Dora Hobbs, who, along with Harwood, was the other longtime servant Natasha had mentioned at lunch. The room itself appeared to have been virtually unchanged since the reign of Queen Victoria, and was furnished with heavy dark oak, heavy velvet drapes, heavy damask bed hangings, and ugly, sentimental knick-knacks cluttering every possible surface. The only saving grace was a pair of oriel windows that let in the sunlight and apparently provided Aunt Pet with her view of the village’s comings and goings.
    As Dora fussed and fretted, Judith tried to find Aunt Pet. Through an open door, she could see a sitting room that appeared as laden with furnishings as the bed chamber. But Claire was fidgeting in the vicinity of an imposing bureau some ten drawers high. Finally Judith realized that the old woman was sitting in a brocade-covered chair by the window. Only the top of her white head could be seen over the high back.
    â€œWell?” The voice was surprisingly strong. “What is it, Dora? Have you got Claire with you?”
    Dora was clearly too intimidated to reply. With a tentative step, Claire moved away from the bureau and approached Aunt Pet with the deference due an empress.
    â€œIt’s me, Auntie. I’ve brought guests. Americans. Friends of Margaret…and Charles.”
    â€œDidn’t know Margaret and Charles had any friends,” muttered Aunt Pet. “Especially American friends. Now how can that be?”
    Petulia Ravenscroft turned slightly, with effort. She looked up at Judith and Renie, and apparently didn’t much like what she saw.
    â€œPants! Why must you women wear pants, except to hunt? Don’t you own a skirt?” Her bright blue eyes raked over Claire. “You, too—what’s this? You been riding this morning? Only excuse for pants. Better not see you come to dinner in that ungodly outfit!”
    Claire kneaded her smart gray flannel slacks as if she could erase them with her fingers. “I was…surveying the formal gardens. Of course I’ll dress tonight. Silk.”
    Aunt Pet’s severe white eyebrows arched. “Long?”
    Claire nodded in a jerky manner. “Long. Naturally. Very long.”
    â€œAnd pearls.” Aunt Pet seemed assuaged, then suddenly swerved her head to pierce the cousins with a look that could have cut brick. “And you? Silk or chiffon?”
    Judith stammered. “Ah…well…I’m not sure. Yet.”
    Renie nudged Judith. “We have to brush our clothes,” she said. “Or sponge them. I forget.”
    â€œThen remember,” Pet huffed, but she seemed somewhat pacified. “Americans, eh? Why?”
    â€œAh…” Judith was still at an uncharacteristic loss for words.
    â€œIt was an accident,” Renie explained. “Our great-grandparents thought they were just on a trip. To the Chicago Exposition. But they sort of got lost and ended up staying for…the rest of their lives.”
    The account was true, if abbreviated. Along with their son and daughter, Great-Grandfather and Great-GrandmotherGrover had set sail from England to visit America for a few weeks. But their great-grandfather’s extravagances had led them into debt and put them to