The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

Sutton had seemed to belong to another world, or to be wrapped in a magic mantle that made her all but invisible to ordinary human beings. Perhaps the wretched woman had made this for herself as a protection from the troubles and anxieties of her life. What a strange and difficult family. Peter had told her that Mr. Sutton had died in 1929 or 1930. There were stories about him, too—that he had hanged himself when his financial losses had overwhelmed him. And then Mrs. Sutton had been left with Catherine who had taken to dope and been consumed with self-interest—even cruel, if what Roger said was true. Roger, himself, a misfit in the post-war world—neurotic and half-crazed by his hatred of his sister. Who else? “Mom” Hartwell who had been taken in to do the accounts. Was she just the stupid conventional gossip she seemed, or was she really a far more sinister character? Her daughter Margie—capable of all the worst manifestations of adolescence. All these ill-assorted people had lived together at the Farm—with Philippine who managed them all. It didn’t bear thinking about, she decided, as she followed the neat figure of the French woman into the crowded living room.
    Everyone looked up to stare as the two women entered, and Fredericka was once more grateful to Philippine for her sudden appearance and protecting presence. No wonder Roger found her so comforting—perhaps he was in love with her. That would be a further complication to add to the general confusion.
    “What do we do now?” Fredericka had suddenly become aware that she had been romancing, and she asked the question with real anxiety.
    “The food’s laid out in the dining room. We get what we want and then eat it where we like. The maids bring you coffee. You pay in advance—in the dining room.”
    Fredericka followed Philippine into the dining room and then gasped at the array of food spread out on the tables.
    “I know, it is tremendous, is it not?” Philippine asked and Fredericka wondered if she had again been guilty of speaking her thoughts out loud.
    “Tremendous doesn’t begin to describe it,” Fredericka answered at once. She continued to follow Philippine around, heaping her plate with lobster, cold turkey and ham, salad and rolls. Then she saw with dismay that Philippine had taken only a small slice of turkey and a bit of salad. “Oh dear, I’ve been too greedy,” she said, blushing.
    “Nonsense. I expect you haven’t had a Sunday dinner like ours at the Farm. Come battle, murder or sudden death our meals go on—oh, mon Dieu , what do I say…?”
    Fredericka put her hand on the woman’s arm and felt it to be trembling. “It must have been awful there today,” she said simply.
    Philippine flashed her a look of gratitude and then, as they moved together to the large screened porch at the other side of the living room, Margie approached them.
    “Gosh!” she said to Fredericka and then, again, “Gosh! May I sit with you and please will you tell me all about it?” In the excitement of the moment she seemed to have forgotten her former enmity.
    Fredericka was completely unprepared for this direct assault, and, to her horror, other townspeople whom she had met at the bazaar and as customers in the bookshop crowded around with anxious questions. Fredericka looked desperately for a protector, but there was no sign of Peter Mohun or Thane Carey; and Philippine had been pushed to the outer rim of the circle that had now closed in around her.
    “There really isn’t anything to say,” Fredericka muttered a little wildly. “It’s all been so sudden and so very dreadful. Can’t we—oh, please can’t we, just forget about it tonight?” How could they behave like this?
    But Margie persisted and several others continued to support her with urgent questions.
    Fredericka felt suddenly faint and the pile of food on her plate sickened her. It was at this moment that Dr. Scott’s pleasant face appeared directly in front of her.
    “Margie, I’m surprised at you,” he said, but with more affection than reproof in his voice. “Suppose that you had come home from the bazaar last night to find a dead body in your hammock, would you feel like eating your Sunday night supper if you had to talk about it?”
    “Oh!” said Margie, ignoring the subtle reproof. “Oh, so you did find Catherine’s body in the hammock. Gosh! Oh, I wish I’d been there. And do you remember, Fredericka, how I predicted it at the bazaar? What I