He accompanied his father many times on these tours of the estate, silently anticipating when people would ask about this paneling or marvel at that chandelier. Always, the tour’s climax was when Papa gathered the group at a specific spot in one of the upstairs hallways and surprised them all by moving a small writing desk. Doing so unblocked a small door in the wall. Once the group had ducked their heads and filed through it, they ascended a narrow staircase to emerge on Whitehall’s roof within a belvedere. From there, one could see for miles to the northern rolling hills. The “Lake”, which was really a large pond on the Clyde’s property, glinted in the sun. On the southern edge, past the forests and fields, the tallest buildings of Wexhall sprouted up toward the skies. Little villages dotted the landscape.
The guests would exclaim at the beauty of the expanse, squinting in the breeze which sometimes grew into an unpleasant gale, causing their eyes to tear.
Once as Jonathan stood alone in the hallway eyeing the desk, Sir William had come along. Kneeling down, Papa had firmly gripped Jonathan’s arm and stared into his eyes. Speaking in a voice Jonathan had never heard before, Papa asked, “Remember how high the roof is, Jonathan? You would die if you fell from there. That’s why I block the door with the desk. If you ever move it, I’ll have Glaser beat you with a riding crop until the blood runs down your back.”
As his father’s fingers bit into Jonathan’s arm, the little boy knew that he would never disobey the order. His stomach lurched at the idea that he had the power to open the small door and ascend the steep staircase up to the roof. He could do it, but he never would, especially since the notion of it transformed his father into a threatening stranger. After that, he always felt a sense of relief once the tour group was inside the house again, and his father was moving the small desk back in front of the narrow door.
“22 and 23 as I believe that is my room
24 and 25 for Sophia’s room…”
The uppermost story was more difficult to determine. It contained a row of smaller windows, just under the roofline. He thought that was where the servants slept.
One of those tiny windows must belong to Old Smithy-Pot herself and one to Cook and one to Ploughman. But which ones? And who looks out of those biggest ones at night?
Built symmetrically, the two final windows at either end of the row were larger than the rest. Jutting past where the others were situated, they were quite prominent.
I’m going to find out. Why should the servants know when I don’t? Maybe Will will go with me. He bit his lip thoughtfully. No, I’ll tell him when I’m done.
Dropping from the tree, he headed toward the house. Careful to shut the front door quietly behind him, he stepped across the entryway. Displeased at the loudness of his steps, he slipped off his shoes and proceeded down the hall to the dining room.
“Jonathan?” came a voice from behind him.
Whipping around, he saw his little sister, a puzzled look on her face.
“Why are you…” Sophia began.
“Shhh!” he urged, glancing around.
She ran on slippered feet to his side.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide.
“I’ll tell you afterward,” he murmured back, starting again toward a door at the end of the dining room. It was a swinging door with no handle. At every meal, the servants would emerge from it, their hands full of serving platters and bowls. Then it would swing back into place behind them.
“But you can’t go in there!” Sophia insisted, reaching for his sleeve, her voice trembling in its rough whisper. “Who knows what they’ll do to you?”
His heart beat quickened at her words, but the boy pushed his sister’s hand away and brought his finger forcefully back up to his lips. “Shhh…”
Pushing the door open just enough to see what lay beyond, Jonathan was relieved that none of the servants was there. Letting himself through, he crept down the hallway, past a room with a large table and paused in the doorway of the kitchen itself.
The broad backside of a woman faced him from the stove.
Cook, he thought, that beastly, contrary woman.
She was stirring something in a large steaming pot.
Jonathan looked around, taking in the row of gleaming copper pots dangling from a rafter and the many shelves crammed with boxes and bottles.
Is this the right way? How do they get up there at night?
There were three doors on the far walls. One, Jonathan saw, led outside. Another was shut, remaining mysterious. The third was slightly open. Jonathan positioned himself to see beyond it.
Stairs. That must be it.
Hoping it wouldn’t creak, Jonathan crept toward the door and prepared to ease himself through, making himself as narrow as possible. He had to push it open another few inches, but the oblivious woman simply reached for a bottle on the shelf overhead.
Up the confining staircase he went, carefully, slowly, his heart beating in his throat.
Will won’t believe I did this. In fact, how can I prove to him that I did? He paused, thinking.
I know!
He felt around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a top that Will had given him earlier that week. He ran his fingers over the marred wooden surface, noting how the paint was chipping off.
It’s broken anyway. I’ll leave it in the window and then he’ll see it and know I’m telling the truth.
Up, up he stepped, expecting at any second to be hit over the head by a dripping ladle from behind. At the stairs’ end was a hallway. Creeping down it, he quietly pushed open the few
