Love's Way by Joan Smith

Author:Joan Smith [Smith, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1983-08-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

With so many souvenirs from India in evidence at the Hall, folks were beginning to refer to it jokingly as Calcutta Hall, or any other Oriental-sounding name they could invent. I was itching to get up to see it for myself, and intended going the very next day. What must happen but Nora came down with a bout of influenza. Not another soul in the whole neighbourhood was so afflicted, and not another soul affected my own life so much as Nora. Naturally I could not dart up to the Hall and leave her unattended but for the servants. A week passed before we were able to go. It was probably the longest week of my life. Word was out about Nora’s illness, keeping callers away in droves. Nor could I be sure of any warm welcome in the village, so I stayed home, with not even Edward for company in the evenings.

The trip to the Hall was therefore a particular treat for me, when the great day came. Already the exterior of the place showed the improving hand of Gamble. The meadow had been cleared, windows glistened in the sun—some order had been reestablished. The greater change had taken place inside. Someone—I suspect Hennie Crawford of the deed—had taken the household management into hand. Surfaces once invisible for dust and debris now gleamed, the sheen of mahogany undimmed by opaque windows. The gray tatters had been stripped away to be replaced by lengths of sea-green brocade, valanced across the top. White sheer underhangings created a feeling of softness at the mullioned windows. I yearned to try this extravagant trick at home. Underfoot, new carpets stretched, the nap on them unmarred by more than a week’s traffic. The blackish-green silver had been polished till it winked in the sun.

So far so good; all commendable improvements. But cluttered in amongst the English silver and mahogany traces of India obtruded, causing a jarring note to the whole. An ugly gray tub in a corner that held periodicals, for instance, turned out to be made from an elephant’s foot, monstrous toenails still intact.

A truly bizarre metal piece with what strangely resembled a snake attached to it was described as “Cousin John’s hookah.” This oddity was for smoking, but smoking of no type ever seen in England. There was water involved, and even perfume, I think Hennie said. Inlaid tables too small for anything but holding the bits of carved ivory and brass bibelots were stuck at random about the room’s edge. Bright, not to say garish, throws littered many a sofa and table. They were pieces of Indian weaving. One might have added some interest to the room. The seven I counted in a cursory tally were definitely too much. One rather expected to see customers roaming through this bazaar.

Hennie looked to us for approval. “I am planning to surprise Cousin John when he returns,” she told us. I began to wonder if this was why we had been asked up, to admire her handiwork.

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