Priscilla shrugs out of her coat and Tom takes it from her, hurrying to hang it from a hook in the foyer. Once her hat and coat are gone, Miranda can see she’s tall and somewhat angular in form, the kind of thin that comes from good health rather than any lack of food. Her hair is fairer than it appeared under the brim of her hat and falls to her shoulders once released from the concealing headgear. She’s quite pretty.
Smoothing her slightly oversized button-down shirt, she shakes her head and says, “No, I’m full to the brim with tea just at the moment. Dinner is only an hour past. I’d really like to see the garden. Perhaps we’ll join you gentlemen in a bit. Sound alright?”
Miranda is almost taken aback by her confidence that what she says will be perfectly fine with everyone else. She’s very no-nonsense, but her manner of speech is a bit odd, like she has to focus to make the words come out right. It’s almost like her words take actual, physical effort. It’s quite the combination.
After everyone agrees and the two men meander down the hall, Tom pointing out little things to George as they go, Priscilla smiles and says, “Finally! A little peace. He’s like a mother hen, always clucking around me as if I’ll break.”
Now, Miranda really is taken aback, because that’s exactly what it’s like. The difference is that Miranda had begun to believe it. No, it’s more than that. She’s bought into it wholeheartedly. Maybe, Priscilla can help her get back a little of what she was before. Maybe Miranda can borrow some of the other woman’s strength.
“The garden?” Priscilla prompts.
“Oh, yes! Sorry about that. I just haven’t seen another woman in years now. It’s just this way and down the stairs. I hope you’re not afraid of dank basements with shadowy corners,” she says, leading the way to the staircase down below.
Priscilla snorts. “If I was before all this, I learned not to be after living in one for six months.”
Miranda leads her down the old corridors that used to be the domain of the staff. Rooms branch into spaces once reserved for such esoteric things as polishing silver, staging the day’s china, mending or ironing, and a dozen other things.
Priscilla peeks into the rooms as they pass, a bit wide-eyed at it all. “This really is a big house. Doesn’t it feel too big for you?”
“Yes, it does, but once I came to terms with the idea that I couldn’t possibly keep it clean, it felt less intimidating. We mostly use the staff kitchen and dining area, plus our bedrooms.” She pauses at the open door to the first part of her gardens and waves a hand. “And this, of course. The garden.”
Priscilla is suitably impressed by the expanding setup. Miranda’s racks and trays and tables have spread to include multiple rooms. She’s learned much, and now she’s perfected the system of mimicking seasons with light so she can get fresh produce all year. This room is in the midst of high summer, while in another room, spring is beginning. In yet another, fall is gently descending.
Priscilla pulls out a notebook and takes copious notes, asking about specific gear and all sorts of things. While she’s flattered about the note taking, she’s a little surprised by the notes themselves. Priscilla holds her pen as if unaccustomed to such a thing and her writing is the clumsy half-script of a schoolchild.
She catches Miranda looking and gives a chagrined smile. “I was a doctor. You know, before. Don’t we all have terrible writing?”
Miranda tries to play it off, laugh, and continue the tour, but bad handwriting jokes aside, that was the writing of someone not yet comfortable with it. Perhaps Priscilla had a stroke or something, or some other malady. Weren’t there a lot of such things that impacted dexterity?
As they reach the Fall Room, which is what Miranda has named it, she runs her hands through the frilly fronds of carrots almost ready to be harvested and says, “So, you see it’s actually quite simple once it’s set up. It’s tweaking the system in the beginning that takes the most time. It can be frustrating, but keep on it and you’ll find it’s easy after you work out all the kinks. The best part is that pest control is very easy. Keeping pests out of a basement is a lot less work than getting rid of an infestation outside.”
“For me, it’s a matter of space,” Priscilla says. “We live in a farmhouse so it’s got a good basement, but nothing like this. Of course, there are empty houses everywhere and there’s no one to say I can’t appropriate a few more. That would be a bother, though. You know, getting from one house to another.”
This is the most personal Priscilla has gotten since arriving. Once they go upstairs to the kitchen where she does her canning, any opportunity to talk privately will be gone. It’s surprisingly difficult to begin the conversation. She’s had only Tom for so long, she’s forgotten how to turn a stranger into a friend. It used to be second nature.
“Priscilla,” she says, but falters.
“Call me Cilla. I always think of being in trouble when anyone calls me by my full name.”
It’s said with such warmth that it gives Miranda bravery. She can do this. After all, when will she next see another woman?
“Cilla, I’m not sure where to begin,” she pauses, then glances upward in the general direction of the kitchen and the two men sitting there. Miranda has no doubt they’re wondering what’s being talked about down here.
The other woman turns away from the lush carrot ferns and fully faces her. Her smile is the kind that says she knows where Miranda is coming from. She’s been there. And really, is there anything sensible to say in such a situation?
Instead of the sensible thing she’s been searching
