Susan Speers by My Cousin Jeremy Page A

to be kind. “It was badly done. You should have been told early on. Even I knew…” Her voice faltered.
    “Let’s speak of something else.”
    She turned toward me, half hesitant, half hopeful. “Let’s be different here. Perhaps we could be friends?”
    I wanted to answer yes. I wanted us to be the companions we could always have been, but my words were as frozen as my feelings. Again I said nothing and watched a light flicker and die in Daisy’s blue eyes.
    Looking back, I’m sorry we lost our chance to be more than acquaintances, more than girls who shared a schoolroom, malicious comments and little else.
    Marcie and Darsie remained my special pets. I had the fun of little sisters and they had the comfort of my constant presence while their mother accompanied their father on his peripatetic journeys. Miss Quirke encouraged our friendship and she fostered my work with Miss Caleph.
    I painted maps with seething forests and emerald clearings for Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks and Hansel and Gretel. My take on the glittering candy cottage reflected a schoolgirl’s sharp appetite for sweets, but I grew misty eyed, remembering Willow and the magical day we met. Her cottage was shuttered now, its warmth dead in the cold of its deserted hearths. Miss Juniot taught babies in the village school.
    Miss Prinn, now Mrs. Pickety, wrote to me every month, an occasional scrawl from Nurse enclosed within. “There is no real news” Mrs. Pickety would write from time to time. No news from Jeremy, I concluded. I would sigh and bury my feelings in stitching an intricate flower for my embroidered garden.
    No publisher expressed an interest in Miss Caleph’s excellent work, but she remained cheerfully resolute and taught me the value of finding joy in creative endeavor despite the gatekeepers’ indifference.
    Daisy was popular at Brenthaven. She cultivated a flock of wealthy American girls. Elsie Gordon had a photograph of her brother Ronald in pride of place on her bureau. He was a student at Harvard University in Boston, and his dark good looks captured the hearts of Brenthaven girls who yearned to meet him in the flesh. Daisy would hold his photograph aloft and practice flirting, spouting a stream of bright banter until all her newfound friends collapsed in giggles.
    In less than a month, Daisy was chosen head girl, buoyed no doubt on a tide of American enthusiasm. I remained in my attic room, companioned by my books, my embroidery and my dreams of Jeremy.
    *****
     
    I was at Hethering for the Christmas holidays. Jeremy wasn’t there. His name was never spoken aloud, but the soughing boughs in our evergreen forest whispered it in my ears. I went about my usual duties, listless. I refused to raise my eyes to my father’s searching gaze. I didn’t care what he thought or felt. Our dinners together were silent.
    “Is Jeremy on the continent?” I asked once, unable to stop my words.
    “He is if he knows what’s good for him,” was the cold reply. Our silence resumed.
    Christmas Eve found me in the great hall, reattaching silk bows blown from the tree by the wind when Hethering’s heavy double doors opened. I was waiting for Jeremy. It was Christmas, he had to come home. My fingers felt the sharp edges of a spun glass ornament before I had a good look at it. It was a model of the Eiffel Tower, near half a foot tall.
    “Jenkins?” I called the maid who bustled about. “This is a new bauble, is it not?”
    “It arrived from France, Miss, not two weeks ago. There was no card, Miss,” she said to my hopeful face, with sympathy that seeped through her formal manner. I believe all of Hethering waited with me.
    That night I took the velvet cloak and crossed forest and field to sit on the marble floor of the fifth folly. After a numbing wait, Jeremy came to sit beside me. He put his head on my shoulder. We sat together until the cold became unbearable. I feared to turn my head, I feared he was a dream, but he took my hand and