looked at them with disgust, mumbled
something, and turned back to presumably go to the rescue of the
weed-threatened marigolds.
“Let me guess,” said Emma touching
a finger to her temple, “we are headed to Ben’s place.”
At Ben’s place, his butler startled
by her loud pounding on the front door, holding his nose as high as he could in
the air, informed her that Ben—Sir Benjamin—was in back at the stables.
Having brooded long enough to
rebuild her outrage of the night, she was fully ready when she encountered Ben.
He was startled to see her and even more startled at her withering verbal
attack. Her coherence was somewhat chopped up by the sword of her rage, but he
gathered, in bits and pieces, that she was accusing him of making fun of
her...continuing to derive amusement at her expense...and...and why was he
digging a grave?
That took a minute to sink in.
“What?” he blurted out. “Digging a
grave? What are you talking about?”
Without acknowledging his puzzled
question, she continued because she was on a roll like a runaway wagon heading
downhill: “I saw you digging a grave yesterday. If you were burying someone why
didn’t you bury them at the church?”
Ben was recovering from his
amazement, and his face was darkening.
“Maybe they aren’t Christian,” she
hurled the accusation at him. “Is that it? If they are not Christian they
wouldn’t want to be buried in a Christian churchyard...”
She hesitated because she was beginning
to run out of steam.
“If you are finished, young lady,”
Ben intoned through clenched teeth, “I am busy. You have to go home.”
As he turned and walked into the
stable, she yelled after him: “That is what I intend to do. Good day!”
On the way back to the trap she
wondered if she had maybe been a little too emphatic in what she had said.
While it had given her satisfaction to get it off her mind she now felt a
little deflated and even somewhat apprehensive.
Emma was not in the trap when she
got back to it. When she noticed that the gate to the walled garden was open
she decided to go in search of Emma.
She found her in the garden talking
to the man dressed in the clothes of a clerk whom Amy had seen the previous day
overseeing the digging of the grave. Emma was smiling and looked up as Amy
approached.
“Look at these, Amy.”
She was drawing Amy’s attention to
three small bushes.
“Aren’t the flowers on the bushes
so delicate and beautiful? Mr. Worthington tells me that Sir Benjamin’s father
sent them from India. They’re called Rhododendrons and they come all the way
from the slopes of the Himalayas.”
“Come, Emma,” she said with a
forced smile after greeting Mr. Worthington and being greeted in return.
A grim faced Amy led her sister
back to the trap.
“The place where the Rhododendrons
are planted,” said Emma with a clearly fake innocence, “isn’t that where Ben
was digging the grave?”
When the Saturday of the picnic
came around, the family gathered atop Old Camp Hill. The unprepossessing hill
got its name from a local legend that it had been a Roman camp back in Roman
times. Except for a few large boulders that might form a circle if one looks at
them the right way there was not much evidence that the sight had any past.
One advantage of the putative Roman
camp was it always proved to be a good place for a picnic. Another advantage
was it gave a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. To the south,
Hillfield House could be seen, and to the west, the River Arne peeked out here
and there through the trees. While Sibbridge House remained hidden in the
trees, the smoke from its chimneys was highly visible, and to the north the
spire of the Stockley-on-Arne village church stood out in the distance.
With the use of both the trap and
the wagon, the family gathered for the picnic which the servants were setting
up. To the disappointment of Amy’s mother for one reason or another only the
family was present.
something, and turned back to presumably go to the rescue of the
weed-threatened marigolds.
“Let me guess,” said Emma touching
a finger to her temple, “we are headed to Ben’s place.”
At Ben’s place, his butler startled
by her loud pounding on the front door, holding his nose as high as he could in
the air, informed her that Ben—Sir Benjamin—was in back at the stables.
Having brooded long enough to
rebuild her outrage of the night, she was fully ready when she encountered Ben.
He was startled to see her and even more startled at her withering verbal
attack. Her coherence was somewhat chopped up by the sword of her rage, but he
gathered, in bits and pieces, that she was accusing him of making fun of
her...continuing to derive amusement at her expense...and...and why was he
digging a grave?
That took a minute to sink in.
“What?” he blurted out. “Digging a
grave? What are you talking about?”
Without acknowledging his puzzled
question, she continued because she was on a roll like a runaway wagon heading
downhill: “I saw you digging a grave yesterday. If you were burying someone why
didn’t you bury them at the church?”
Ben was recovering from his
amazement, and his face was darkening.
“Maybe they aren’t Christian,” she
hurled the accusation at him. “Is that it? If they are not Christian they
wouldn’t want to be buried in a Christian churchyard...”
She hesitated because she was beginning
to run out of steam.
“If you are finished, young lady,”
Ben intoned through clenched teeth, “I am busy. You have to go home.”
As he turned and walked into the
stable, she yelled after him: “That is what I intend to do. Good day!”
On the way back to the trap she
wondered if she had maybe been a little too emphatic in what she had said.
While it had given her satisfaction to get it off her mind she now felt a
little deflated and even somewhat apprehensive.
Emma was not in the trap when she
got back to it. When she noticed that the gate to the walled garden was open
she decided to go in search of Emma.
She found her in the garden talking
to the man dressed in the clothes of a clerk whom Amy had seen the previous day
overseeing the digging of the grave. Emma was smiling and looked up as Amy
approached.
“Look at these, Amy.”
She was drawing Amy’s attention to
three small bushes.
“Aren’t the flowers on the bushes
so delicate and beautiful? Mr. Worthington tells me that Sir Benjamin’s father
sent them from India. They’re called Rhododendrons and they come all the way
from the slopes of the Himalayas.”
“Come, Emma,” she said with a
forced smile after greeting Mr. Worthington and being greeted in return.
A grim faced Amy led her sister
back to the trap.
“The place where the Rhododendrons
are planted,” said Emma with a clearly fake innocence, “isn’t that where Ben
was digging the grave?”
When the Saturday of the picnic
came around, the family gathered atop Old Camp Hill. The unprepossessing hill
got its name from a local legend that it had been a Roman camp back in Roman
times. Except for a few large boulders that might form a circle if one looks at
them the right way there was not much evidence that the sight had any past.
One advantage of the putative Roman
camp was it always proved to be a good place for a picnic. Another advantage
was it gave a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. To the south,
Hillfield House could be seen, and to the west, the River Arne peeked out here
and there through the trees. While Sibbridge House remained hidden in the
trees, the smoke from its chimneys was highly visible, and to the north the
spire of the Stockley-on-Arne village church stood out in the distance.
With the use of both the trap and
the wagon, the family gathered for the picnic which the servants were setting
up. To the disappointment of Amy’s mother for one reason or another only the
family was present.
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