“So he said, and I don’t see why he’d say so if it weren’t true. Not one of your more romantic names, is it? ’Course, maybe it was pronounced French at one time. ‘Ploonkay’ has a certain air to it…”
“Possibly if he wanted to be a fashion designer, but maybe he’s happy as he is.”
“Happy is what he didn’t look, Mrs. H, when he took an eyeful of you.”
“Me?”
“Could we continue this rather banal conversation outside?” Ben paced further into the gloaming, allowing Mrs. Malloy to ignore him without seeming to be downright rude.
“Never mind that, Mrs. H, before you get all upset, Mr. Plunket is not the owner of this lovely big house.”
“No? Then what is he? A policeman directing traffic?”
“The butler.” Mrs. Malloy shook her head at my dimwittedness, then, perhaps feeling she had been unnecessarily crushing, added: “Not that he looked the part. More like he’d dressed out of the ragbag.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“What difference does it make what he was wearing?” Ben made an irritable turn and collided with a suit of armor, which made a metallic protest but mercifully did not draw its sword.
“And a face like a gourd,” continued Mrs. M remorselessly. “Still, as I remember thinking on being introduced to my second… no, third husband, ugly is as ugly does. Like my American friend says, Abraham Lincoln never won any beauty pageants.”
“And where is Mr. Plunket now?” I asked.
“Gone for a word with his nibs, is how he put it.” Mrs. Malloy pointed at a door which I estimated could be reached without getting winded by anyone in reasonably good shape.
“About giving us directions? Why couldn’t he have done that on his own?”
“Some people can’t point the way to the end of their own noses. But never mind that, Mrs. H.” Her eyes flashed like a cat’s in the dark, and it was finally borne in on me that she was sizzling with excitement. “Get this! Them two people he mentioned as getting here ahead of us-the ones from the van, that is-they’re part of a television crew, cameramen, audio, and such. Seems they’ve come to film a documentary! The director’s French, if you can believe it!”
“God! What a ghastly stroke of luck!” Ben paced back into view, his footfall echoing up from the flagstones like the march of thousands. “We can’t intrude at such a time! What if we get caught on camera explaining we couldn’t find our way from point A to point B because of a little mist that wouldn’t have stalled a kid on a tricycle. Ellie”- there was a note of pleading in his voice that would have undoubtedly touched my very core had I not been considering the likelihood of the director’s name being Francois and whether he would wear a beret and sit in a canvas chair with his name on the back.
It shames me to report that I turned away from Ben to ask Mrs. Malloy a vital question. “Did Mr. Plunket say what sort of documentary?”
“So now you’re interested.” She struck a pose indicative of pondering her best side if presented to the camera. “He didn’t get round to that. He ran off, it seemed to me”-she paused to give me the gimlet eyes from under penciled brows-“when he took a good look at you, Mrs. H!”
“Keep rubbing it in. I’m sorry I missed his reeling back in horror.”
“You don’t say. Anyway, from the look on his face it was like he’d seen a ghost.”
“What rubbish!” If my laugh sounded hollow, it was due to the acoustics produced by the mile-high ceiling that vanished to a glimpse of the dependent light fixture and a railing girding what was presumably a gallery. I preferred the thought of lepers to minstrels. Was that a grotesquely dehumanized face peering down at us? Ridiculous! My overactive imagination had conjured a bedraggling of hoary locks out of a trick of light. And yet, in my defense, a place like this, reeking with antiquity and seemingly serious neglect, might cause even the normally unsusceptible to overreact.
“It was right after eyeballing you that Mr. Plunket said he’d ask his nibs about the directions. Scuttled off he did like the hounds of hell was at his heels.” Mrs. Malloy stood savoring the memory, while Ben took a detour around the trestle table before fumbling his way toward the fireplace. I inhaled a thought.
“Maybe that’s the reason for crew and the documentary.”
“What you mean, Mrs. H?”
“Ghosts. I wonder if this place is to be part of a series on haunted houses. I can’t imagine it having been chosen for the glimpse it provides into the golden glory of aristocratic living.”
“I’ll bet you’ve hit the nail on the noggin.” My trusty cohort is not one to hand out praise on a shovel and she did not now beam approval, but her nod conveyed agreement of sufficient fervor that her hat shifted a couple of degrees.
“What can be keeping the butler fellow this long?” Ben again passed the suit of armor without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. Did the sensation of being preyed upon by unseen eyes and ears emanate from that chunk of metal? Or was there some other hovering presence counting the seconds until Ben dragged Mrs. Malloy and me out the door that would thud heavily and inexorably against us as we went fleeing back into the night? Aware that this was a chapter I had read more often than was good for me, I banished the chills and thrills and concentrated on the logical.
“Very likely Mr. Plunket has interrupted a session between his nibs and the director of the television show and is having difficulty stirring up interest in our trivial situation.” I felt regretfully compelled to add: “Under the circumstances, I think you’re right, darling, we are making nuisances of ourselves, and from what Mrs. Malloy said of Mr. Plunket’s reaction to me, I don’t suppose he’ll mind one bit returning to find us gone.”
Being… or thinking… myself good at picking up atmospheres, I imbibed waves of gratitude flowing my way from Ben, coupled with even stronger vibes that boded well should he and I ever be blessed in entering our own bedroom once again. But before he could utter more than a reprieved sounding half-syllable, Mrs. Malloy responded vehemently. “That’s right, Mrs. H, go blaming me for forcing us to do a bunk. Well, I for one don’t hold with bad manners-them being precluded in Article Forty-nine, paragraph fourteen of the CFCWA [Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association] Charter. Besides, it could be the reason Mr. Plunket’s not back yet is that his nibs and the director are talking about inviting us to be extras”-her face became a beacon far outshining the inadequate wattage of the hall-“or even give us speaking parts.”
To be on television? My shallow nature thrilled to the prospect. And, I reminded myself, on the practical side the exposure would be good for my career and Ben’s. He could casually mention his cookery books and the bistro. I could display a charming knowledge of furniture styles, fabrics, and ambience before the camera panned to my logo and business e-mail address. A couple with three children and a cat to support must sensibly seize opportunities offered. Besides… my incredibly beautiful fashion model cousin Vanessa would be sick with jealousy, as would that woman at church who always looked down her nose at me because I don’t know one opera from another… and there was that friend of hers who talked all the time about going to Paris for lunch…
Upon catching Ben’s eye, I reined in my delusions of approaching fame while being sufficiently resentful of his wet blanket attitude to move away from him and Mrs. Malloy and prowl over to the suit of armor. We have a pair at Merlin’s Court positioned against the staircase wall, and I was interested in discovering if there was any familial resemblance. If so, I could give this one an update on how often ours, according to the children, came alive when they thought no one was watching.
“Well,” said Mrs. Malloy in a defeatist voice, “could be I’m getting ahead of meself about us being included in the show. Not that it matters to me; it was you I was thinking about, like always, Mrs. H. I expect the truth is his nibs is ninety years old and Mr. Plunket is having trouble waking him from his nap.”
“Or deciding if he’s dead,” muttered Ben nastily. “In this lighting, his viability could be questionable for days.”
“No need for jokes, Mr. H, I don’t think it’s nice considering-now I come to remember-that Mr. Plunket said this had been a difficult evening already.” Either Mrs. Malloy or Ben sighed gustily; there followed the irritable tap-tap of her high heels. Without turning my head, I was aware of her standing with her back squarely to me a yard or so from the staircase.
“Good evening,” I addressed the suit of armor with the courtesy I had instilled into my children during the process of introductions. “What, my fine fellow, can you tell us of this place?”
Its visored face showed only slightly more expression than a guard at Buckingham Palace.
“Ever get an urge to scratch an itch?”
Oh, the folly of thinking oneself witty at the expense of the immobile. Foolish… infantile assumption! Before the
