i 3d091ef367b6a8bf by Unknown Page A

the day the old cat added, "Your brain, Victoria, is afflicted as is your voice, it's weak."?'"Oh yes, and you came home crying. She was an old cat. But now, stop your jabbering and go to the kitchen and see what Peg's up to. Nothing hot. Ask her to give us cold soup. Yes, that's an idea, ask her to give us cold soup.''She'll have a fit.''No doubt, but, nevertheless, ask her. And don't disturb me for the next half hour.''Yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am,' and Victoria dipped her knee twice before turning and skipping towards the kitchen, while Bridget, leaving the hall, went down the corridor and into a room at the far end and which looked part library and part office, for the shelves along one wall held an array of books and those along the other, tin boxes and ledgers. The boxes, all bearing labels, and the ledgers were in sections docketed by a tin label attached to each shelf. It was called an office, and it looked an office except perhaps when you looked at some of the titles on the bookshelves: Bronte, Wilkie Collins, Mrs Gaskell, 79and in between these Tennyson and Plato's Apologia, while on another shelf, next to Lord Chesterfield's Letters, were volumes of George Eliot and Anthony Trollope.Whereas the ledgers and tin boxes were meticulously docketed, the books had no order but spoke of a wide and mixed taste in literature.If Bridget had been questioned about her taste and the jumble of books on the shelves behind her desk, she would have replied, 'Oh well, you must come down to our real home in Shields and there you will see an ordered library. The books all beautifully bound, all in the same dark red Moroccan leather, their titles engraved on the spines, but so small you can hardly read them. There must be a few thousand books in that library, and they're only distinguishable one from the other by the tone of the leather. You see, in my grandfather's time it was the done thing not just to have a library but to have the books well presented; the bindings must be all similar. The size of the books, too, had to be graded on to different shelves. He would buy books by the dozen, and have them bound by the hundred. But as my father
    80said, to his knowledge he didn't think his father had ever opened one unless there was some indication that it held a map within its pages, because his only interest was in shipping and he studied maps of all kinds.'Bridget lowered herself into the outsize leather chair which had fitted her father's broad beam but in which she often slid from side to side, especially if she was wearing breeches. From a brass rack to the right side of her she took out a sheet of notepaper. There was a heading to it, saying simply, Henry Dene Mordaunt, and underneath, Manufacturer of Polishes and Candles. Andrew Kemp had suggested she alter the heading into her own name and she had laughingly said, 'What! Bridget Dene Mordaunt, Blacking and Candle Manufacturer?9 No, that was her father's heading and it would remain.She now wrote a letter to her agent in Newcastle, heading it with one word, 'Immediate,' before beginning: 'Dear Mr Fathers.' That name always amused her. She then went on to tell him that he must inform her of those vacant properties in the nearby
    81towns, those at an available distance to the (factories being preferable.Having signed and sealed the letter, she rang a bell, and when Jessie herself answered it, she said, Take this letter, Jessie, and get one of them from the yard to ride to the post office. I want it to catch today's post if possible.''Important?''Yes, important, Jessie.'Jessie paused a moment, the letter in her hand; but when her mistress made no further comment she turned and left the room.Bridget shook her head as she looked towards the closed door. Jessie was ageing rapidly but, as with Danny, such a thing as age must not be mentioned. She couldn't remember ever opening her eyes as a child and not seeing Jessie's face hovering above her and speaking the same words, 'Come on, pet, open up