The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

cleared—a few flowers and even a hammock. But you can discover all that for yourself.”
    Fredericka hurried after her guide and climbed the stairs that went up steeply from a point in the hall midway between the front and back doors.
    Philippine finished her explanation hurriedly. “Your room is the yellow guest room at the back, Miss Hartwell’s at the front and, on the other side of the hall, an extra shop storeroom at front, bath and a personal storeroom at the back. There’s no second floor over the kitchen—so that’s all there is. And now I must dash. My jeep should be ready and my lunch—” she stopped abruptly. “But—how stupid of me. What about your lunch?”
    “I—I don’t really want anything at the moment. I’d rather have a bath first and then I’ll see if there’s a bread crust in the kitchen.”
    “I’m sure there’s something there. If not, it’s only a step to the stores—you remember—along Spruce Street on the right. If it’s really all right I must dash. I am so sorry but we will meet soon again, I hope.”
    Fredericka heard the clatter of steps on the stairs and then, as the screen door slammed, she sank into the chintz chair and groaned.
    Suddenly the door opened again and Philippine’s voice, sounding strident and foreign in the quiet house, called: “The bookshop never stays open on Saturday afternoon unless Miss Hartwell happens to want it to. So you’ll have the weekend to catch your breath.”
    “Thanks,” Fredericka called.
    The door slammed again, this time with finality.
    An hour later, Fredericka, feeling greatly refreshed, finished the last of the salad and cold coffee that she had found waiting for her in the kitchen. She had planned to explore the bookshop and the library but a glimpse of the hammock beyond the kitchen window was too much for her resolution. She salved her conscience by taking a block of paper and a pencil from the office desk and when she had stretched herself out in the leafy shade, she wrote the words, Things to be done… Then she stopped and chewed the pencil meditatively.
    So much had happened since that morning two weeks ago when she had read the ad among the Personals in the Saturday Review. She knew it now by heart.
    WANTED. Educated woman to run bookshop and lending library, small college town in Massachusetts. Work not arduous. Rest and enjoyment of country possible. Owner-manager called away suddenly. Please reply Box 874
    It had sounded like the answer to prayer. Being a branch librarian in New York in July had been bad enough, but short staff, shorter tempers, and hours of overtime had made the thought of escape a rainbow dream. And there was the book started two years ago, the encouraging letter from the publisher: “Work not arduous.” There would be time, at last, to write.
    At a sound behind her Fredericka sat up suddenly, and the pencil slipped from her hand to the ground.
    From the tangle of shrubs and trees a black face peered out at her.
    “Beg pardon, Miss. I’m Chris. Miss Hartwell’s Chris. Sorry if I scared you. I’ve been unpackin’ books in the stable here and Miss Hartwell, she say I was to ask you if you didn’t want somethin’ else done afore I went along home.”
    The tall negro now stood over her and his smile looked too good to be true, but perhaps he was just trying to be friendly.
    “Oh. Then you’re Christopher Fallon.”
    “That’s right, Miss.”
    “Well. I do have a trunk at the station. Miss Sutton said you could get it for me.”
    “Yes, Miss.”
    “How do you manage? I know there isn’t any car.”
    “No, Miss. I uses the wheelbarrer, fetchin’ anythin’ from the depot—parcels of books mostly.”
    “Good.”
    As the man started to move away, Fredericka felt a sudden impulse to detain him. The silent house and great overgrown garden were all at once oppressive.
    “Is it Miss Sutton, or Mrs. Sutton, Chris?”
    “Miss, if you means Miss Philippine the lady who met your train. Her aunty is ole Mrs. Sutton that owns the big place out on the turnpike. Her father, that was Mrs. Sutton’s brother, he went to the big war, the first one, and married hisself to a French woman. But they both got themselves killed in this war we had just presently. Ole Mrs. Sutton she went and hunted for Miss Philippine until she foun’ her at last and brought her back home.”
    “Hasn’t she any children of her own then?” Fredericka couldn’t resist asking. Then she was immediately sorry for