The Purpose of Miss Shepley

Chapter Eight (part II)

Mrs. Burke woke me early the next morning and nervously primped me. She tied a ribbon in my hair, then she decided it was ostentatious, and pulled it out again.

This first day, and none after, followed strictest etiquette, as if the Grimmonds cared enough about the rules of good society to prove they knew them, but not enough to actually abide by them day to day. Miss Goodwin and the children -- which included Temperance for a few months yet -- would breakfast in the nursery. Lady Oakhurst, as a married woman, would take a tray in her room. As a result, a footman showed me down to a morning room, and left me there, quite alone.

A sideboard of dark stained oak was piled high with platters of bread, sausages, cheeses, and small fishes, towers of peaches and little egg tarts, pots of butter and jam, and more of Oakhurst's pickled onions.

I filled a plate and sat, looking round me as I chewed. It was a simple room, bright and cheery. The walls were plaster; the draperies and the table cloth were starched white linen, plain save for an edging of airy cutwork. Simple as it was, I reckoned a lot of work went into keeping it all so starched and white.

The wall facing me was crowded with framed silhouettes, mostly children's. At least five of them were labelled Earnest. The other walls displayed pale watercolors, which varied in shape and size, but not in subject matter: they were all pastoral scenes of blue skies over rolling hills dotted with something or another -- crabbed oaks, orange flowers, grazing sheep...

Earnest joined me soon enough, pink-faced and damp about the temples, as if he'd washed just minutes ago. He was still buttoning his shirt cuffs, and I realized he probably really had washed just minutes ago.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "Did you sleep well? I hope you haven't been alone here too long. I'm afraid it's a bit lonely now, with Father gone and Constance married... In truth, I haven't bothered to come down in months." He cast a glance at my plate. "Didn't you care for the onions?"

"Oh." I had tried one the night before, and opted against sampling them again. "They're a bit strong..."

"Well, of course. You can't just skewer them with a fork and eat them whole" -- which is precisely what I'd done.

Earnest shook his head, laughing at me, then he spread one of the onions into a piece of bread. He mounded a generous helping of soft cheese on top and handed it to me. "You can put a fish on that if you like."

I bit into it without enthusiasm. The bread and the cheese rendered the onion edible, and that was all I could say for it.

Earnest shrugged, unconcerned. "Father never much liked them, either."

He loaded a plate with a few slices of bread, a whole sausage, two tarts, three or four little fishes, and more butter than I could believe, then he took a seat across from me.

I nodded toward the silhouettes. "This is quite a collection."

"Oh, Father did those. We're all up there. Aren't the resemblances fascinating? Here's Temperance and me..." He turned and indicated a half dozen profiles, each one larger, sharper, more adult than the last. Then he pointed out a few chubby-cheeked figures.

"These are the twins... Father made them last year. They look just like Constance did, don't you think? Temperance and I have sworn to each other we'll keep it up. It'd just be too sad if we didn't..."

Earnest blinked a few times, then he smiled blandly. "Say, the fish smell good..."

I ate a fish. My eyes drifted toward the landscapes.

"And who painted all the watercolors?"

"Father again," Earnest said. "There's one for each of us. Well, almost... The twins were a surprise, of course. That one's me..." He pointed to a hillside dotted with grazing sheep -- I felt a pang of worry about my flock, and I tried to forget it.