The Smile of the Stranger by Joan Aiken Page B

wake shrieking, “No—no! They are cutting Papa ’ s head off! Oh, stop them, stop them!”
    “Now, that ’ s enough of that, child!” Hurdle ’ s voice, firm and comforting. “Tis naught but the nasty nightmare. Nobody ’ s head be a-going to be cut off in these parts.”
    At last the fever receded, and Juliana lay weak, aching in every limb, but whole and calm once more, able to take stock of her situation. She saw for the first time that she occupied a four-post bed, in a large pleasant chamber, with a fireplace oddly set in an angle of the wall, a few pieces of old-fashioned furniture, and two windows looking out at the tops of trees. She was in her grandfather ’ s house, and her father was dead. All her old life lay behind her, and ahead of her was a blank, an empty frightening void. Limp and docile, she allowed herself to be washed, combed, fed, taken up and laid down, but daily gained a little in strength.
    At last there came a day when she could pull herself up, to sit against her pillows.
    “Ay, that ’ s more like it!” said Mrs. Hurdle encouragingly, giving her a basin of gruel. “ Now ye ’ re able to feed yourself, we ’ ll soon have ye as plim as a pippin! Swallow that down, my dearie!”
    Then, a week later, there came an evening when her grandfather climbed the stairs to visit her.
    He was wearing formal evening dress, and stood black as a pillar between Juliana and the fire. His face, she thought, was set in even more rigid lines of disapproval than when she had first laid eyes on him. He cleared his throat.
    “Well, child—how do you find yourself going on now, eh?”
    “Much better, sir, I thank you,” Juliana said faintly. “I am sorry to be such a trouble on your household for so long.” She tried to smile. “I am used to look after myself, and after my f-f-f ... ” Her voice failed, and she had to take a breath, but added, “I shall soon be about again, on my feet, and hope to make myself useful in some way.”
    “Useful? Humph! What could you do? Females cannot hope to be useful,” he said dryly, more to himself than to her, but then added, as if he meant to do his best to cheer her, “No, no, when you are better, and your cheeks have filled out a bit on Hurdle ’ s gruels—for at present you look like a little starved lapwing—you may post up to town, to your aunt Caroline, who will rig you out in fine feathers, and take you about to all the gaieties. She and those two noddlecocks of hers will soon cheer you up, I daresay.” He turned to the fire muttering to himself. It seemed to Juliana that he said, “And then doubtless you will catch a husband, and then you will be off my hands,” but she was not certain of this.
    “Sir,” she said, “I thank you—and my aunt Caroline—for the thought, but I do not wish to go up to town.”
    “Hey? What ’ s this? Not go up to town? You will do as you re told, miss, and no disputing!”
    He wheeled round again, leaning on his cane, and Juliana saw the look that must often have struck dismay into the heart of her father as a boy—a blue, fierce flash of the pale eyes, a grim set of the jaw as he glared at her, thumping his stick on the boards for emphasis.
    “Sir,” she protested feebly, “I am still in mourning for my father—who was the best and dearest parent a daughter could hope to have. It is too soon to think of—of fine clothes and gaieties.”
    “ Well—well,” he conceded, with a little less severity in his tone, “true, it is early days yet, I acknowledge, to be thinking about town fripperies. Hurdle says you must get your strength back yet awhile. Country food and country air. But what will you do with yourself in this old house? There ’ s naught here to amuse a wench. Only the garden and the forest. I’ve no time to entertain ye.” “Or inclination, either,” he muttered to himself.
    “Pray do not trouble yourself on that head, sir. I shall find plenty to occupy my days. Firstly, I must make