Here Comes a Candle by Jane Aiken Hodge Page B

don ’ t have the kind of household you ’ ve likely been used to in England, miss. ” Here, suddenly, was the heart of the long speech. “ Just me and Prue, and Job and the boy, but we ’ ll do o ur best to make you comfortable. ”
    “ I ’ m sure you will, Mrs. Peters, and I ’ ll try to be as little trouble as possible. I ’ m not a bit used to being waited on. My father and I only had one daily girl toward the end. ” She had never thought the day would come when she would speak of her father, and face the old nightmare of his death, and what followed it, so easily. It all seemed at last, mercifully, a long time ago.
    The present was Sarah. Here was a challenge, something worth doing. For already she found herself wholeheartedly in agreement with Jonathan Penrose. She could not believe that whatever ailed Sarah was beyond cure. If only she knew more about how it had started. Surely there must be some clue there?
    On an impulse, she asked Mrs. Peters about it, as they wrapped up pound cake and cheese and dried fruit for the picnic. Sarah had retreated to the far end of the big kitchen to kneel in a big rocking chair, rocking violently and singing to herself—a tune that Kate recognized, almost with triumph, as Greensleeves .
    “ It ’ s been a year? ” Kate was comfortably certain that Sarah was paying no attention.
    “ Since it happened? Just about—and getting worse all the time, poor lamb. ”
    “ Were you here when it started? ”
    “ Yes, but they weren ’ t. Mrs. Penrose had taken Sarah to Saratoga Springs with her, ” she explained. “ When they came back, I noticed at once the child was quiet—it seemed to come on from day to day: awful to watch it was. She was such a lambkin, Mrs. Croston, before and now ... (she looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice) sometimes it seems as if the devil was in her, and I have to remind myself it ’ s our Sarey. There ’ s some in the village, though, won ’ t come near her. I ’ ve heard talk, once or twice, that ’ s frightened me. ”
    “ And no one knows what started it? ”
    “ Not rightly. It was that night, of course—the one when she was lost, poor little lamb, and locked up in that awful shed, in the dark. And how she came to stray so far from the hotel is more than I ’ ll ever understand: she was such a good little thing. Do always try to remember that, when she kicks and screams and bites, and you think you ’ ll go crazy too. And nothing they can do, the doctors say. It fair breaks yo u r heart. ”
    “ Well, I ’ m going to try— ” she stopped. What was she going to try?
    “ You do that, miss. You never know. She ’ s certainly taken a rare shine to you, which is more than I ’ ve seen happen since ... Mind you, she cares about her father, all right; you can see that plain enough, if you just use your eyes. ” She stopped, suddenly aware of the implication with regard to Arabella. “ Well, there ’ s your picnic, and I hope it keeps fine for you. ”
    Though it was still only the end of May, the sun was shining as brilliantly as in full English summer, and Kate found herself envying Sarah her cool muslin dress as they took the path that led to the violet hollow. This, she was sure, was the place for their picnic, since it was clearly a favorite of Sarah ’ s. The sun was high overhead by the time they got back there, but she did not open their parcel of provisions at once. The kind of scene Sarah had made over breakfast must be bad for her; she would delay their meal until she had hunger on her side. So she began picking bunches of violets, separate ones for each color, and for a while Sarah joined in enthusiastically. But soon she tired of this, and instead of arranging her flowers in bunches began laying them out in long trails across the clearing, a line of white, a line o f yellow, a line of blue. Kate, carefully wrapping her own bunches in damp moss, tried to persuade her to do the same, but it was no use, the