hard as rocks. The breast is edible. If we stay, we must hire someone who can cook. I am a little concerned about Mr. Sharkey, Miss Thackery. We have not seen a sign of him in over twenty-four hours. I mean to call on him after dinner. I hope nothing has happened to him.”
“With luck, he will have absconded—without paying his rent.”
“If so I shall try to get someone genteel to take his rooms. That will leave only Miss Whately to give the place a bad reputation.”
“Why, you sound as if you intend to stay, Cathy!” I did not deny it. I was beginning to take a proprietarial interest in my tenants, and in my horrid house. “I daresay we can thank Mr. Alger for this idea,” she suggested, with an arch look.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, but I felt a blush warm my cheeks. I found, too, that I kept listening for the slamming of the front door, heralding his return. When dinner was over, he had still not come back, nor had Mr. Sharkey appeared. It was seven-thirty, and we went to the saloon to be ready to greet the tenants, come to claim the lumber.
Chapter Six
I should enjoy being a shopkeeper, to judge by that evening’s work. It was amusing with customers coming in, outlining their requirements, and making their selection. Everyone’s favorite tenant was Mrs. Clarke, and she was given precedence in selecting what she required for Jamie. Her wants were modest: a chest of drawers to hold the baby’s clothing and blankets. She had a good eye in her head, too. She chose a piece of a pretty shape, saying, “Would it be all right if I painted it, Miss Irving? Jamie’s coverlet is blue.”
Mr. Butler, who followed a step behind her like a lady’s footman, lent his support. “A lick of paint and it will be good as new. Miss Irving will not object to that.”
Miss Irving did not object, but in fact pointed out a matching set of hanging shelves that might likewise be given a lick of paint and provide a display shelf for Jamie’s toys.
Mr. Butler’s eyes were busy spying out other treats for his beloved. It did not take a mind reader to see he was mad for the girl.
“You could use another chair, Anne,” he said, examining the collection of chairs. “When Miss Lemon has tea with us, we have to bring the chair in from the bedroom.”
“By all means have a chair. Have two,” Miss Thackery said eagerly. Chairs were what we had most of.
With a little urging, Mrs. Clarke selected two chairs, and Mr. Butler took not less than three. I am sure I don’t know what he meant to do with so many of them. While I tended the widow, Professor Vivaldi roamed the room and selected a desk and chair for himself. Mrs. Scudpole was not to be left out of anything that was free and was snapping up odd tables and assorted bric-a-brac.
Mullard was on hand to help bring the extra furnishings from the cluttered bedroom and move various pieces about, so the tenants could get a look at what was under or behind them. We had the hallway quite full of lumber. Miss Lemon, afraid she was missing something, came downstairs carrying Jamie. She was a respectable, middle-aged woman who treated Mrs. Clarke with some strange mixture of a mother’s bossiness, a maid’s servility, and a friend’s genuine concern.
“Jamie woke up, Mrs. Clarke,” she said, “so I thought there was no harm in bringing him down. You know he likes a little romp before settling in for the night. You recall I wanted a bedside table and lamp, if there are any to spare.”
Mrs. Clarke took the child to allow her nurse (or whatever Miss Lemon was) to roam the shop unencumbered.
Jamie was all an officer’s son should be. His fat little face was topped by a fluff of dark curls. He had big blue eyes. Fresh from his nap, he was all smiles and gurgles. Miss Thackery and I admired him to his mama’s satisfaction. We agreed he had his mama’s eyes—and took her word for it that he had his papa’s hair and ears.
“This is his birthday,” Mrs.
“With luck, he will have absconded—without paying his rent.”
“If so I shall try to get someone genteel to take his rooms. That will leave only Miss Whately to give the place a bad reputation.”
“Why, you sound as if you intend to stay, Cathy!” I did not deny it. I was beginning to take a proprietarial interest in my tenants, and in my horrid house. “I daresay we can thank Mr. Alger for this idea,” she suggested, with an arch look.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, but I felt a blush warm my cheeks. I found, too, that I kept listening for the slamming of the front door, heralding his return. When dinner was over, he had still not come back, nor had Mr. Sharkey appeared. It was seven-thirty, and we went to the saloon to be ready to greet the tenants, come to claim the lumber.
Chapter Six
I should enjoy being a shopkeeper, to judge by that evening’s work. It was amusing with customers coming in, outlining their requirements, and making their selection. Everyone’s favorite tenant was Mrs. Clarke, and she was given precedence in selecting what she required for Jamie. Her wants were modest: a chest of drawers to hold the baby’s clothing and blankets. She had a good eye in her head, too. She chose a piece of a pretty shape, saying, “Would it be all right if I painted it, Miss Irving? Jamie’s coverlet is blue.”
Mr. Butler, who followed a step behind her like a lady’s footman, lent his support. “A lick of paint and it will be good as new. Miss Irving will not object to that.”
Miss Irving did not object, but in fact pointed out a matching set of hanging shelves that might likewise be given a lick of paint and provide a display shelf for Jamie’s toys.
Mr. Butler’s eyes were busy spying out other treats for his beloved. It did not take a mind reader to see he was mad for the girl.
“You could use another chair, Anne,” he said, examining the collection of chairs. “When Miss Lemon has tea with us, we have to bring the chair in from the bedroom.”
“By all means have a chair. Have two,” Miss Thackery said eagerly. Chairs were what we had most of.
With a little urging, Mrs. Clarke selected two chairs, and Mr. Butler took not less than three. I am sure I don’t know what he meant to do with so many of them. While I tended the widow, Professor Vivaldi roamed the room and selected a desk and chair for himself. Mrs. Scudpole was not to be left out of anything that was free and was snapping up odd tables and assorted bric-a-brac.
Mullard was on hand to help bring the extra furnishings from the cluttered bedroom and move various pieces about, so the tenants could get a look at what was under or behind them. We had the hallway quite full of lumber. Miss Lemon, afraid she was missing something, came downstairs carrying Jamie. She was a respectable, middle-aged woman who treated Mrs. Clarke with some strange mixture of a mother’s bossiness, a maid’s servility, and a friend’s genuine concern.
“Jamie woke up, Mrs. Clarke,” she said, “so I thought there was no harm in bringing him down. You know he likes a little romp before settling in for the night. You recall I wanted a bedside table and lamp, if there are any to spare.”
Mrs. Clarke took the child to allow her nurse (or whatever Miss Lemon was) to roam the shop unencumbered.
Jamie was all an officer’s son should be. His fat little face was topped by a fluff of dark curls. He had big blue eyes. Fresh from his nap, he was all smiles and gurgles. Miss Thackery and I admired him to his mama’s satisfaction. We agreed he had his mama’s eyes—and took her word for it that he had his papa’s hair and ears.
“This is his birthday,” Mrs.
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