this socially inept backdoor cousin and now felt responsible for him. Presumably Mr. Fredericks was a faithful steward of his master’s affairs, and Lord Boring was no doubt relieved to be able to fulfill a family obligation as well as to safeguard his own interests.
“Oh undoubtedly,” I said. The “good fellow” had just detached at least two feet of fringe off the bottom of the tapestry while attempting to tug it into place. My eyes narrowed. Someday I might have to sell those tapestries so that we could eat.
“That wants sewing back on,” said Mr. Fredericks, handing the strip of material to me. “What’s behind this door?”
“A passageway to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen offices,” I replied, but he opened it nonetheless. Unwilling to inflict this person on our long-suffering cook, no doubt enjoying a well-earned rest after whipping up all that cream, I suggested, “Perhaps you would like to follow me up to the minstrel gallery. We have a great many family portraits and other paintings, some of which are said to be quite fine.” In fact, most of the paintings left were portraits, as landscapes and still lifes are easier to sell than ancestors.
The walls of Crooked Castle are pierced, more or less at random, with arrow slits. In a real fortress these small openings, just large enough to accommodate an arrow angled towards the ground, would have allowed archers inside to take potshots at an enemy outside without providing a target themselves. In an unreal fortress like Crooked Castle, their only function is to allow the winds from off the North Sea free access to the interior. One such breeze rolled down the stairs to meet us as we mounted. Mr. Fredericks hugged himself and shivered. “You ought to have Rumford fireplaces installed—it’s like an icehouse in here,” he said.
“Oh, that’s only because you’re so used to the tropics, you know,” said His Lordship, smiling bravely at me as the gust of air lifted the hair on his forehead. “Fredericks has been ill,” he confided, as the gentleman in question moved ahead of us to examine the portraits. “He came back from India a few weeks ago and on the voyage home he acquired a chill on the liver that he’s finding difficult to shake.”
“I see.” I spoke over my shoulder to His Lordship as I hastened after our other guest, who was scratching with his fingernail at the gold leaf on the frame of my grandfather’s image. I’d have thought that even a chill on the liver would be pleased to be excused from Mr. Fredericks’s company, but apparently not.
When I reached him, Mr. Fredericks was looking down at a small object in the palm of his hand. He held out a curlicue of gold, broken off from the frame, saying accusingly, “Shoddy workmanship. However,” he went on, pointing at a painting I had loved from infancy, a small picture of a brown and black dog playing with a ball, “ that is by George Stubbs. Take care of it. It may be worth something someday. Or not, of course—Stubbs turned them out by the boatload, you know—but it is a pleasant little thing. The others, of course . . .” He shrugged.
With enormous restraint, I did not remark that, up until today, the paintings had not suffered any damage in my lifetime. “Allow me to show you the view from the parapet,” I said, in hopes of distracting him. What harm could he do on the battlements, out in the open air?
“These portraits ought to be cleaned,” he said, ignoring my suggestion and fiddling with the painting of the little dog. “They are shockingly dirty. Let me show you . . . I believe that a penknife inserted here under the frame would allow us to see—”
“Mr. Fredericks!” I cried. “Please! I am exceptionally fond of that picture.” I looked to Lord Boring for assistance, but he was some distance away, examining a portrait of my great-great-great-aunt on my father’s side. He turned, however, and was about to remonstrate, when Mr.
“Oh undoubtedly,” I said. The “good fellow” had just detached at least two feet of fringe off the bottom of the tapestry while attempting to tug it into place. My eyes narrowed. Someday I might have to sell those tapestries so that we could eat.
“That wants sewing back on,” said Mr. Fredericks, handing the strip of material to me. “What’s behind this door?”
“A passageway to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen offices,” I replied, but he opened it nonetheless. Unwilling to inflict this person on our long-suffering cook, no doubt enjoying a well-earned rest after whipping up all that cream, I suggested, “Perhaps you would like to follow me up to the minstrel gallery. We have a great many family portraits and other paintings, some of which are said to be quite fine.” In fact, most of the paintings left were portraits, as landscapes and still lifes are easier to sell than ancestors.
The walls of Crooked Castle are pierced, more or less at random, with arrow slits. In a real fortress these small openings, just large enough to accommodate an arrow angled towards the ground, would have allowed archers inside to take potshots at an enemy outside without providing a target themselves. In an unreal fortress like Crooked Castle, their only function is to allow the winds from off the North Sea free access to the interior. One such breeze rolled down the stairs to meet us as we mounted. Mr. Fredericks hugged himself and shivered. “You ought to have Rumford fireplaces installed—it’s like an icehouse in here,” he said.
“Oh, that’s only because you’re so used to the tropics, you know,” said His Lordship, smiling bravely at me as the gust of air lifted the hair on his forehead. “Fredericks has been ill,” he confided, as the gentleman in question moved ahead of us to examine the portraits. “He came back from India a few weeks ago and on the voyage home he acquired a chill on the liver that he’s finding difficult to shake.”
“I see.” I spoke over my shoulder to His Lordship as I hastened after our other guest, who was scratching with his fingernail at the gold leaf on the frame of my grandfather’s image. I’d have thought that even a chill on the liver would be pleased to be excused from Mr. Fredericks’s company, but apparently not.
When I reached him, Mr. Fredericks was looking down at a small object in the palm of his hand. He held out a curlicue of gold, broken off from the frame, saying accusingly, “Shoddy workmanship. However,” he went on, pointing at a painting I had loved from infancy, a small picture of a brown and black dog playing with a ball, “ that is by George Stubbs. Take care of it. It may be worth something someday. Or not, of course—Stubbs turned them out by the boatload, you know—but it is a pleasant little thing. The others, of course . . .” He shrugged.
With enormous restraint, I did not remark that, up until today, the paintings had not suffered any damage in my lifetime. “Allow me to show you the view from the parapet,” I said, in hopes of distracting him. What harm could he do on the battlements, out in the open air?
“These portraits ought to be cleaned,” he said, ignoring my suggestion and fiddling with the painting of the little dog. “They are shockingly dirty. Let me show you . . . I believe that a penknife inserted here under the frame would allow us to see—”
“Mr. Fredericks!” I cried. “Please! I am exceptionally fond of that picture.” I looked to Lord Boring for assistance, but he was some distance away, examining a portrait of my great-great-great-aunt on my father’s side. He turned, however, and was about to remonstrate, when Mr.
Similar Books
