Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

when a brewing woman would come each autumn on a bicycle to brew the year’s barley crop. We shall enter the house through the archway just ahead, passing first through the old kitchen …”
“In other words,” whispered Wilfred, “the servants’ entrance.”
“Just behave yourself,” said Michael.
A rusted lawn roller was parked by the door. Next to it lay a hinged, V-shaped sign, apparently still in seasonal storage. Its flaking letters said: EASLEY HOUSE—OPEN FOR TEA . Michael visualized the arthritic old butler who would drag it down to the public road when summer began.
“You will note,” intoned the guide, as they entered the house and filed through a narrow passage, “these unusual-looking steel bars along the walls. This corridor was used as a larder some years back, and joints of meat were hung along these bars.”
“See?” said Phyllis.
“I see,” muttered Walter.
They were led into an empty paneled space which the guide identified as the dining room. The label seemed honorary at best; it obviously hadn’t been used for years. Then came the butler’s pantry and the lamp room, “where paraffin lamps were cleaned prior to the electrification of the house in nineteen thirteen.”
“This next room is the audit room,” the guide continued. “Lord Roughton is justifiably proud of the fact that he has not sold off the cottages of the estate. He has made every effort to preserve the visual charm of the entire village. His lordship collects the quarterly rents in person, using a special rent table—that’s it in the center there—and that table was made especially for Easley House in seventeen eighty. His lordship informs us that this practice not only saves postage but facilitates complaints about leaking roofs and the like.”
By the time they reached the great hall, Michael had been lulled into lethargy by the steady drone of the guide. He was hardly prepared for the dimensions he encountered, the heavenward leap of the high mullioned windows facing the chapel, the echo of their footsteps on the rough plank floor.
He was certainly not prepared for Mona.
Watching from a balcony.
Standing there, cool and blond, looking down on them.
Catching his eye.
Frowning.
Disappearing.
He touched the small of Wilfred’s back. “I saw her.”
“Where?”
“Up there.” He led the kid with his eyes, “That little balcony at the end of the room.”
With uncanny timing, the guide directed their attention to the same spot. “Above us, ladies and gentlemen, is all that’s left of the original minstrels’ gallery—the place where musicians would gather to perform for the gentry gathered in the great hall. The gallery was converted to a bedroom in the late eighteen forties, at which time the oak posts supporting the gallery were sheathed with the present stucco Doric columns.”
“Are you sure?” whispered Wilfred.
“Uh-huh ”
“What now, then?”
“Nothing. We can’t. Not yet.”
The kid glanced impishly around the room.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” murmured Michael, “but don’t. ”
“Over there,” the guide rattled on, “next to the bay window, you will see a very rare Chippendale exercising chair. Bouncing on that rather odd contraption was believed to be beneficial to one’s health.” He grinned stupidly at the one named Walter. “How about you, sir? Would you care to try it?”
“No, thanks,” was the sullen reply.
“Oh, Walter, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” His wife gave him a little shove.
“Phyllis …”
The guide coaxed his victim with a big hammy hand. “C’mon, sir. There’s a good sport. Let’s have a hand for the gentleman, shall we, everybody?”
Even Michael became engrossed in the man’s humiliation, joining in the applause as the hapless Waller sat down in the suspended chair and began to bounce. The laughter that followed was all the diversion Wilfred had needed. When Michael turned around again, the kid was gone.
His absence wasn’t noticed as the group was led up a short flight of stairs into the drawing room. Nor was he missed as they explored the library and the sitting room. “The sitting room,” the guide explained, “is sometimes known as the boudoir. Does anyone know what boudoir means in French?”
No one did.
“Well, boudoir is the French word for ‘to sulk,’ so this room was the place where the ladies of Easley House came to sulk about the wretched behavior of their husbands.” He chuckled manfully. “I expect many