Here Comes a Candle by Jane Aiken Hodge Page A

making a mental note to ask Jonathan Penrose if there was not some more practical place and way of feeding the child than at this polished dini n g table. In the meantime, Mrs. Peters would doubtless draw the gloomiest conclusions from the state in which they left the room, but that could not be helped. Sarah was her job—and no sinecure. She took her hand and felt it writhe in hers, the child desperately braced against her, ready for flight.
    Fatal to give in now. She stooped and swung Sarah up into her arms. “ My father had a game he played with me too. ” She began to sing: “ Ride a cock horse/To Banbury Cross, ” swinging Sarah in her arms in time to the music. Sarah struggled for a minute, wildly, then just as suddenly burst into a shriek of laughter that Kate found almost as disconcerting as her previous resistance. But never mind, they were halfway upstairs.
    In Sarah ’ s room, she delved in closets and drawers, to find what struck her as an immense and unsuitable wardrobe for a child so young. Hard to imagine wayward little Sarah dressed up in these frilled and flounced muslins. The checked gingham she was wearing seemed eminently more suitable, and Kate found its twin lying in a drawer. But Sarah stamped her foot, her lip trembling.
    “ You don ’ t like it, Sarah? Well, pick one you do like. ” At once, the child dug to the very bottom of the drawer and brought out a well-worn dotted muslin.
    “ That one? Do you think it ’ s big enough for you? Let ’ s try it anyway. ” She had got used now to the fact that Sarah never answered her, and was already suiting the action to the word. The dress was a tight fit, but not, she thought, actually an uncomfortable one. At any rate, Sarah was obviously pleased, taking a few almost dancing steps across the room, skimpy skirts held out. Kate half expected her to run to the looking glass, but when she led her there, the child showed no interest, merely pulling Kate out of the room and downstairs again. Outside, the sun was now shining brilliantly with all the warm promise of early summer. Kate held back for a moment. “ Let ’ s have a picnic, Sarah. ” After all, she must be hungry. And then, when a mutinous look and a further tug of the hand suggested that here was a word Sarah did not understand: “ We ’ ll get some cake or something from Mrs. Peters and take it out in the garden. Where ’ s the kitchen, Sarah? ”
    The child stood stock still , puzzled, wary, but luckily at this moment Mrs. Peters appeared from a door halfway down the hall, and Kate explained what she wanted.
    “ A picnic? I don ’ t see why not. I forgot to tell you, miss, that Mr. Jonathan left a message. Just to say he was sorry not to see you before he left, but he ’ d have to be at the mill all day. He mostly lunches there. He looks forward to seeing you at dinner, he says. ”
    “ And that ’ s? ”
    “ Late. Seven o ’ clock, if you ’ ll believe it. It ’ s an idea Mr. Jonathan picked up in foreign parts. Well, I reckon it does fit in well with his business. ” It was the grudging approval of an old retainer.
    “ You ’ ve been with Mr. Jonathan a long time? ”
    “ Just about forever, I reckon. And his father before him—oh, I ’ ve seen some times ... ”
    “ And Job? ” She had been wondering where the old colored man had got to this morning.
    She snorted. “ Oh, he ’ s just a newcomer. Mr. Jonathan brought him back one year he was at Harvard. He ’ d been down to Washington with a friend of his for his Christmas vacation. I guess they went down into Virginia to one of those slave auctions they have there, and Mr. Jonathan just couldn ’ t bear it. I know there was ructions when he got home, on account of all the money he ’ d spent on Job—and only to free him, of course. Though I reckon Job earns his keep at that. He ’ s a powerful fine coachman and never had a spill yet. And waits at table when there ’ s company, and valets Mr. Jonathan ... We