The Withdrawing Room Page 10

  She crossed Beacon and cut through the Common to the handsome building that had housed Boston Music Company years before either she or her parents had been born. She was walking slowly, keeping an eye peeled for a possible glimpse of Miss Mary Smith, when she spied a commanding figure in a black coat, a plum-colored velvet turban and scarf, and plain black boots strolling some distance ahead of her. Sarah had no conscious intention of shadowing her boarder, but she found herself altering her path slightly to keep Mrs. Sorpende in view. It soon became obvious that she was making a beeline for the women’s public rest room.

  That was odd. No, perhaps it wasn’t. Mrs. Sorpende was, after all, a middle-aged woman who had drunk three cups of coffee with her breakfast. But she’d only just left the house. Sarah had heard her go out while she herself was collecting her purse and gloves. Might Mrs. Sorpende have been taken with sudden cramps or something? What was a landlady’s responsibility in such a circumstance?

  One couldn’t very well enter the rest room, too, and catch so dignified a person in what was more than likely to be an undignified situation. On the other hand, one didn’t like to go away and leave her in possible distress. Maybe one should simply hover at a discreet distance and wait to see how Mrs. Sorpende looked when she came out. Sarah stationed herself behind a convenient Ulmus procera (Boston Common trees wear erudite name tags) and lurked.

  Chapter 12

  MRS. SORPENDE DID NOT come out. One or two others did. Sarah saw a child of fourteen or so, who ought to be in school at this hour, slouching from the building in a pair of too-tight blue jeans, a fuzzy fake fur jacket so short that it might indeed lead to severe kidney disturbances, and backless mules with fantastically high heels she didn’t have the remotest idea how to manage. The girl was puffing inexpertly at a cigarette and made Sarah want to cry out of pity for her.

  There was a tweedy woman who tied two afghan hounds to the doorknob by their leashes and made a fast trip in and out. Right behind her Sarah caught sight of a black coat emerging and sighed with relief for her own feet were getting cold with standing. However, it was on a stooped old woman who had a ratty scarf tied over her head and a pair of broken-out red sneakers on her feet. She was carrying a large plastic trick-or-treat bag that must date from many Halloweens ago. Another amateur ecologist, no doubt.

  And still there was no sign of Mrs. Sorpende. By now Sarah felt she had good reason to be concerned. Indelicate though she might be, she walked over and went in.

  The place was surprisingly clean, and totally devoid of life.

  “Well, you idiot!” she said aloud.

  Had she really seen Mrs. Sorpende come in here? Of course she had, she wasn’t blind. Had the woman left by another entrance? No, there wasn’t one. Then Mrs. Sorpende must simply have come out and slipped quickly around to the other side while Sarah’s attention was momentarily diverted by that pathetic child in the fuzzy jacket or the old woman who might have been Miss Smith but wasn’t. God willing, the boarder hadn’t happened to notice young Mrs. Kelling making a fool of herself behind that elm tree.

  Feeling very cross with herself, Sarah went along about her business. It was one of those days when nothing goes right. She had a long wait at the music store while some odd mix-up about Aunt Emma’s order for the parts to Cost Fan Tutti was straightened out. She got into the wrong line at the bank as one always does, and after having stood on one aching foot then the other for some while, found she’d been blessed with a trainee teller who could not cope with the complexities of depositing five rent checks and one trust fund allowance and handing Sarah back the little extra cash sum she allowed herself for emergencies.

  The store she usually went to for cream was out of it, for some unexplained reason, so she had to go elsewhere and pay a good deal more. All in all she got back to the house far later than she’d meant to, and her temper was not sweetened by finding that she hadn’t brought her door key with her. She poked the bell, dropping Aunt Emma’s package in the process and scattering Mozart all over the vestibule. At last Mariposa came downstairs from the third floor where she’d been mopping bedrooms, and let her in.

  “I thought you were going to clean up this hall,” was Sarah’s ungracious greeting.

  “I did,” Mariposa protested. “I mopped and dusted and vacuumed as soon as you left.”

  “Then somebody’s messed it up again in a big hurry. We simply can’t let this sort of thing go on. Is Mr. Hartler in his room now, do you know?”

  “Yes, but he’s got somebody with him.”

  “Somebody with muddy feet, no doubt. Stand guard here will you, and let me know the second he’s free. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  However, Sarah never got to the kitchen. As she was going down the long hallway that led past the dining room, she happened to look in. A woman she’d never seen before was coolly opening the china cupboard and taking out one of Great-grandmother Kelling’s Coalport vases.

  All the resentments of that frustrating day, all the anger Sarah had been so carefully brought up to suppress, came surging out. She charged at that woman with a ferocity she’d never realized she could show, and snatched the vase from her hand.

  “How dare you?”

  The woman was not the least bit intimidated. “How dare I what? Look, I didn’t come here to be insulted. That’s not a bad piece. Reproduction, of course, but not bad. Tell you what, I’ll give you fifty dollars for the pair. What do you say?”

  What Sarah said was, “Mariposa!” and she said it in a shriek.

  The maid came running. “What’s the matter—madam?” she added hastily, seeing the stranger.

  “Go put the night latch on the door,” Sarah ordered, “then come straight back here and help me count the silver.”

  “Hey, just a minute,” yelled the strange woman. “You can’t hold me here against my will.”

  “Can’t I?” Sarah was a trifle more collected now. “You entered this house against mine. How did you get in?”

  “He opened the door for me, naturally. Your boss.”

  “My what?”

  Mr. Hartler must have heard the commotion, for he popped into the dining room, beaming as usual. His irate landlady wheeled to attack.

  “Mr. Hartler, can you explain why I found this—this person rifling my china cabinet? She claims you let her in. Is that true?”

  “Why, I suppose I must have, if she says so,” he replied. “Yes, I believe I do recall going to the door. But you see, I happened to have someone else with me at the time, so I—dear me, what did I do? I’m so excited, you see. This chap I have in my room now—”

  “Mr. Hartler, I’m not interested in your excitement. I am demanding to know why you’re turning my house into a pigsty and letting strangers roam freely where they have no business to be.”

  “Just a second,” interrupted the strange woman. “Whose place is this, anyway? Is she crazy, or what?”

  Sarah got her answer in first. “I am Mrs. Alexander Kelling. This is my house and Mr. Hartler is my boarder. I’ve allowed him to carry on his—”

  “Yes, yes,” the old man bubbled. “Mrs. Kelling has been most kind, most kind indeed. I’m afraid she finds me a dreadful old nuisance. Now, Mrs.—I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name—perhaps it might be better if you came some other time when we’re not quite so—er—preoccupied.”

  “I should prefer that she not come at all,” said Sarah coldly. “She’s just offered me fifty dollars for a pair of my great-grandmother’s Coalport vases.”

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What a pickle. Mrs. Kelling, I do apologize most humbly. Most humbly indeed. Here, Mrs.—er—I’ll just show you to the door.”

  “Hold it!” barked Mariposa. “We didn’t count the silver yet.”

  “But surely—that is—”

  “Mr. Hartler, take your visitor to the front hall and stay there with her until we finish here,” Sarah ordered. “As soon as we’ve made sure nothing is missing, we’ll come and release the
night latch so she can leave. In the future, you must schedule your appointments far enough apart so that this sort of thing never happens again. You must also instruct your callers to leave their boots outside and quit using my oriental rug for an ashtray. I don’t know what sort of people you’re entertaining here, but if they can’t behave in a civilized manner, you’ll have to see them somewhere else. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m a dreadful old man and I do apologize, Mrs. Kelling. I give you too much trouble, too much trouble. Please come this way, Mrs.—er—”

  The woman was sputtering, “Well, I must say!” and Mr. Hartler was soothing her with, “Yes, yes, all my fault. Terrible misunderstanding,” as he led her into the hall and courteously shut the door behind them.

  Counting the family treasures was no doubt a hollow gesture at this point, but Sarah and Mariposa did it anyway. Nothing appeared to be missing, but it was clear that the Coalport vase wasn’t the only thing Mr. Hartler’s errant visitor had handled. Sarah worked as fast as she could, not being at all sure whether she was in fact within her rights in keeping the woman locked in the hall, and having no desire to find herself in the papers again, this time charged with kidnapping. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before she went out and released the lock.

  “Well,” snapped the woman as she flounced out, “I’m certainly never coming here again!”

  “Splendid,” Sarah replied. “I shall look forward to not seeing you.”

  That was about the rudest she’d ever been in her life. She’d thought an explosion might relieve her feelings, but it didn’t. By six o’clock she had a raging headache. When Max Bittersohn phoned to say he wouldn’t be in to dinner, she almost burst into tears.

  “But I was going to give you the carrot pudding,” she wailed, then realized what a fool she was making of herself and felt even worse.

  “Save me a piece,” he replied. “I’ll be in sometime or other. I wish I could have given you more notice, but I just checked with my answering service and they tell me I’ve got to see a man about a Matisse.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  It wasn’t all right. Sarah was appalled to realize how much she’d been counting on Mr. Bittersohn for moral support. Now what was she going to do?

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS A MERCY she’d done all that cooking the previous afternoon. Otherwise, Sarah might never have got through dinner. She set things in motion as best she could, then went upstairs for a couple of aspirin and half an hour’s rest before having to begin the evening performance. The prospect of having to make polite conversation in particular with Mr. Hartler after the dressing-down she’d had to give him was almost more than she could face.

  Maybe she ought to have gone in and apologized after his obstreperous visitor was gone; but, damn it, why should she? This was her house, not his.

  With the help of Uncle Jem, Sarah had drawn up a tough, practical set of house rules. Mr. Hartler had got a copy as had everybody else. Guests were to be received publicly in the library or privately in the tenants’ own rooms. They were to come and go at reasonable hours, and to behave in a seemly enough fashion so that they wouldn’t be a nuisance to anybody else. They were to enter the dining room only if proper arrangements had been made and the extra fee had been paid.

  Under no circumstances whatever did any outsider have the right to wander unescorted through the house handling the landlady’s personal possessions as if they were trinkets in a gift shop. If Mr. Hartler couldn’t abide by the rules, then Mr. Hartler would have to leave. And if Mrs. Sorpende had to be ejected for nonpayment of rent, then she could go and housekeep for him and he could buy her some new underwear.

  Feeling a trifle better for her rest, Sarah took a shower, put on more make-up than she was accustomed to and a gray satin dress Aunt Emma had owned in younger, slimmer days, and went downstairs to be gracious if it killed her.

  As she was crossing the hall into the library, Mr. Hartler burst through the front door, still in his daytime outerwear: tweed hat askew on his tumble of white hair, tweed-lined poplin storm coat buttoned awry, arms laden with bundles. “For you, Mrs. Kelling,” he panted. “Apologies. Horrible old man. Now I’m late. Must change at once. Shopping impossible this time of day. Should have realized. Wicked old man. Happy old man!”

  He bounded into his room, leaving Sarah to open her presents. There were a dozen voluptuous white roses, a lavish flask of benedictine, a three-pound box of expensive chocolates. As an apology, she had to admit, this was no mean effort.

  Once he’d rejoined the company in his usual evening attire, though, self-abasement was forgotten. His afternoon caller—not that unfortunate woman who had, as he put it, behaved so naughtily, but the other one—had brought in photographs of what purported to be no fewer than seven out of a set of sixty-two dining room chairs King Kalakaua had commissioned from a Boston firm in 1882 and never collected. Paeans of joy, Mr. Hartler was going to see them that very evening! He was so excited he didn’t think he’d be able to eat his dinner and he fervently hoped Mrs. Kelling would forgive him if he didn’t

  Before they’d even got to the table, Sarah’s head was throbbing. Everybody was thoroughly fed up with Mr. Hartler and his sixty-two chairs. Miss LaValliere, who’d got her hair done that afternoon in an even more grotesque fashion than usual, went into sulks when she learned Mr. Bittersohn wasn’t there to be impressed. Mr. Porter-Smith became morose in consequence since he was, after all, a good deal closer to Jennifer’s age than Bittersohn was and besides, he’d seen her first.

  Since Professor Ormsby never bothered to talk anyway, dinner could have become a total disaster were it not for the consummate tact and skill of the puzzling Mrs. Sorpende. She complimented Miss LaValliere on her coiffure and Mr. Porter-Smith on his erudition until she got them both to act civil. She jollied Professor Ormsby into telling a genuinely funny anecdote about something that had happened at a faculty meeting. She couldn’t get Mr. Hartler out of the clouds long enough to eat his dinner, but she did manage to tone down his raptures to endurable level.

  By the time they got back to the library they were all in reasonably good humor with themselves and each other. Charles had presence of mind enough to serve the benedictine with the coffee even though Sarah forgot to tell him. That reminded her to open her opulent box of candy and pass it around. Bonhomie was restored, at least on the surface, and that was enough for her.

  Nevertheless, Sarah made; her escape as soon as she decently could, and the party broke up with her. Professor Ormsby had another paper to read. Mr. Hartler got Charles to call him a taxi and charged off in hot pursuit of King Kalakaua’s chairs. Mr. Porter-Smith failed to interest Miss LaValliere in scaling the outside of the Bunker Hill Monument by moonlight, but she consented to display her new hairdo at the coffee house. Mrs. Sorpende was the only one not going anywhere, so Sarah left the chocolates conveniently close to her on the coffee table, as a tacit acknowledgment of her magnificent performance.

  Either the sweets were too tempting, though, or not tempting enough. Sarah had barely got into a robe and done her face when she heard deliberate, stately footsteps on the stairs. Though she couldn’t have been less in the mood for company, she was impelled to open her bedroom door.

  “Mrs. Sorpende, would you mind coming in for a moment?”

  “Why, certainly.” With her usual serene courtesy but a tiny pucker between her well-plucked eyebrows, the older woman stepped into the room. “Was there something—”

  “I simply wanted to thank you for taking over so marvelously this evening. I’m sure none of the others noticed because you did it so gracefully, but I can’t tell you what it meant to me.”

  The tears Sarah had felt like shedding ever since Max Bittersohn’s anxiety-provoking phone call spilled over at last. She groped on her dressing table for a tissue and tried to stem the flow.

  “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I didn’t mean to do this. It’s just that ever sinc
e I lost my husband—”

  “Dear Mrs. Kelling, I do understand. Only I did most of my crying before mine went,” said Mrs. Sorpende in an unusual burst of self-revelation. “Believe me, if I was of any help to you at all this evening, I can only say that I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

  What a darling she was! “Do sit down a moment if you have nothing better to do,” Sarah urged. “This slipper chair is quite comfortable, unless you think it’s too low. My mother-in-law often used it, and she was even taller than you.”

  ‘That beautiful, tragic woman,” said Mrs. Sorpende. “It’s strange to realize that I’m sitting where she sat. When I read in the papers—but I’m sure you’d rather talk of something else. Mr. Hartler’s new chairs, for instance?” She laughed in her gentle, pleasant way. “He is a real enthusiast, isn’t he? Though one does sometimes get the impression that his enthusiasm isn’t universally shared.”

  “It certainly isn’t by me! As you may have gathered from all that largesse he was showering on me tonight, we had a bit of a set-to this afternoon; I had to straighten him out in no uncertain terms about the string of visitors he’s been having. They’ve been creating such a nuisance that I completely lost my temper. Now, of course, I wish I hadn’t.”

  “I expect we all wish that sort of thing now and then, but think what a dull world this would be if everyone were perfect. You must find it difficult, having your lovely home filled with a motley collection of strangers like us.”

  “Once in a while I do,” Sarah admitted, “but on the whole it’s far less difficult than trying to stay here by myself. I’d be lonely and worried about how to manage, and nervous about being alone in this big place. Now I’m so busy all the time that I don’t have a spare, moment to worry in. Anyway, this was never my home.”

  “But I was under the impression—” Mrs. Sorpende caught herself. She’d almost fallen prey to vulgar curiosity.