The Callender Papers by Cynthia Voigt

Author:Cynthia Voigt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Chapter 9

I dressed myself carefully for the visit to the Callenders’. Something about that first scene I had spied over, where they were array on the lawn, made me try to appear at my best. I could never, I knew, look elegant. But I was careful to be perfectly neat. I surveyed myself in the mirror before I went downstairs and was satisfied with the results. I had tied back my dark braids with a pink ribbon, and my image looked back at me filled with excitement. If I did not know myelf, I thought, I would want to meet this lively person.

Mr. Thiel and Mrs. Bywall both awaited me at the foot of the staircase. “Don’t you look nice,” Mrs. Bywall said, as if she had to say something. Mr. Thiel said nothing, just stood impatiently. He insisted on driving me over in the carriage, but—even though this time I sat beside him—we had no conversation. I assumed he was angry, angry that I was going, and angry that I was eager to go. I did not attempt to speak with him. After all, why should he expect me to share his disaffections?

As we approached the Callender house, a woman came out onto the front porch, alone, to greet us. She must have been watching for us. Mr. Thiel reined in the horse and sat silent.

“Good morning, Mr. Thiel,” she said, her voice so soft I could barely hear the words.

“Mrs. Callender.” He inclined his head, without looking at her.

She offered me her hand and helped me down. “You are Jean Wainwright. How do you do? We are so glad you could come. Mr. Callender is detained inside, but he will be out shortly.” Then she spoke to Mr. Thiel again. “He asked me to say that we will see Miss Wainwright home,” she said.

Even at this Mr. Thiel did not look at her. He nodded and drove off.

Mrs. Callender must once have been pretty. Her blonde hair curled into ringlets that framed her oval face. She was slender and her carriage was straight. She should have been a lovely woman; her features were formed for smiles and cheerful conversations. Instead, she looked half-awake, as if she were speaking and moving mechanically and had not the strength to do more. Her blue eyes were faded, as if many baths in salt-water tears had bleached the color out of them. She pouted. Her hands fluttered helplessly. We stood awkwardly watching the carriage drive off. I began to wonder if my presence was unwelcome. “I hope it is not a great inconvenience to have me,” I said. Mrs. Callender had taken a breath to answer when she was kept from speaking.

“On the contrary, it’s a pleasure,” her husband said, stepping out from the shadowed doorway just as Mr. Thiel’s carriage disappeared from sight. As if he deliberately avoided meeting Mr. Thiel, I thought. He might have read my mind. “Forgive me for lurking in the background.” He laughed. “We have an old quarrel, your employer and I, and we meet as little as possible.

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