Help the Poor Struggler by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes [Grimes, Martha]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Traditional British, General, Thrillers, Suspense
ISBN: 9781476732886
Google: Jbzk0bixvk0C
Amazon: B00BHHDMOG
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2013-04-15T18:30:00+00:00

VI

The End of the Tunnel

SIXTEEN

JESSICA stood in the doorway of the drawing room that morning, refusing to put her foot over the sill, as if she hoped that might spirit away the person to whom she was being introduced. She wouldn’t look up and she wouldn’t come forward despite her uncle’s growing impatience. It was because she knew what she’d see.

The Amiable Amy.

In that wonderful catchall tone that Uncle Rob could use when he was cross with her, yet understood her dilemma (a common occurrence in the household), he said, “Miss Millar will think you are determined always to address her from the other side of the room, Jess.”

With daggers in her eyes, she looked at her uncle, and then quickly down again lest the eyes might meet Miss Millar’s.

Now it was Miss Millar’s voice — amiable as could be — saying, “I can remember once having to meet a new teacher. I can remember being very shy of her.”

Shy? Shy? Jessica Mary Allan-Ashcroft? Never in her life — or, at least, in the life she had led after Uncle Robert had come along — had Jessie been called “shy.” Her face colored with rage, which only made her more furious because now it would be taken as proof of her being shy.

“Come on, Jess,” said her uncle. Seldom could she remember his sounding as if Jessie’s behavior were an embarrassment to him. Now, that’s just how he sounded.

Henry, hearing the Come on, drifted out of his light doze, even though he was on his feet.

“Not you,” she murmured, giving him a little kick.

The amiable voice continued: “Well, then, perhaps we can talk at luncheon. Or dinner.” Now there was amusement in the voice. “Breakfast? Though I might not last that long. . . .”

That was smart of the new governess. It was as if she were trying to make light of what even Jessie knew to be perfectly odious behavior on her own part. Of course, the Amiable Amy would have to have a sense of humor. Because Uncle Rob had a smashing sense of humor, and Jessie knew humor would make up for all other sorts of defects. Except, perhaps, absolute ugliness. If Amy looked like an ogre or gnome . . . Jessie hazarded a quick glance upward. The case was hopeless. The Amiable Amy was almost pretty. Hopeless. She also had patience. Patience on a monument, she was. Jessie knew a lot of Shakespeare because the Mad Margaret had shoveled it — play after play of it — down her throat, Margaret acting out scenes and bawling soliloquies. Margaret had always wanted to be an actress. She was good at Lady Macbeth.

“Jess.” There was Uncle Rob again, being beastly. “What are you doing, standing there like a statue and wringing your hands?”

Eyes closed, Jessie said, “Not wringing. I’m washing them. I must wash my hands. Nothing will make them come clean. They’re incar ——” She couldn’t remember that word. It was something like carburetor.

Uncle Robert was actually beginning to sound concerned.

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