“Pip!”Una cried.Although Pip Dugdale was the son of their former housemaid, Lily, Una thought of him as much more of a brother than her late brother Percy, who had never spoken to her other than to warn her off anything that was worth having.“Why, I had no idea you were coming today,” she exclaimed, her pleasure at seeing him vying with panic at dealing with yet another variable.“Have you been to see your mother in the village?”
Martha, the magisterial cook and matriarch of the household staff, barked at Annie and the tweenie to get the scones out of the oven while she poured tea for the young man in her kitchen, the lines of her face unusually soft.Anyone other than Pip would have been sent out of the kitchen with a flea in his ear.But he was her own grandson, grown tall and fine, so he was given the place of honour by the range.
Pip unfolded from this nook and gave Una a careless kiss on the forehead, as one might to a child.
There was something about Una—her hair or her eyes, she was never sure—that made people do things like that.Una’s brow wrinkled at the touch.She must reestablish her plans for the day, in which Pip played no part.
“Thanks for the welcome, Una,” Pip said a little drily.(So hehadnoticed her mixed reception.) “Came last night.Mam thought you might like help today with this lot.”He gestured vaguely to where the public would now be pouring through the front gates.
“No, Pip,” she said firmly.“Everything has been arranged.From the moment the Smithsonian gentleman gets off that train after lunch, every second isperfectlyplanned.So thanks very much, but please just stay here, in the kitchen, and“ —she waved her hand at him— “drink tea.”
“Smithsonian,” he said thoughtfully, taking another sip of tea.“That’s in America.”
“Yes!And George says that it’s really vital that we make a good impression on Mr—“
“Anderson?”
Una faltered.“What did you say?”
“James Anderson, was it?”Pip said carelessly.
“How did you know his name?”she said.
“Because I’ve just come up to the abbey with him,” Pip said.“On the ten o’clock train.Steady, old girl.What could go wrong?”
“Don’t say those words!“ she rasped, and thrust Oolong into Pip’s arms.“Everythingcouldalwaysgo wrong!”
“I’ll just stay in the kitchen and drink tea, then,” said Pip mildly, holding out his cup to his grandmother for more as Una fled.
A moment later her head popped back round the door.
“Describe him, quick!And don’t youdaresay ‘American’!”
“Felt hat, red tie, dark glasses, Notable Moustache.Limp.”
It wasn’t until much later that she realised.
It was term time.Pip should be at art school in London.
Una stopped in the passage and leaned against the wall to collect herself, her hand on her chest.
The American could be anywhere by now—at the dragon pond, or the wyvern enclosure, or the gwiberary.And feeding time began in forty-five minutes.Which meant she had thirty minutes to catch him and take him someplace quiet until that was over.
But she didn’t know where he was, and she might chase him about the grounds for hours.She closed her eyes, unrolling the estate like a map in her mind.
Mrs Dugdale, the housekeeper (affectionately known as Mrs Alfred because of the abundance of Dugdales about the place) would be taking the second tour group round the grounds—she would be nearing the round pond presently.Of course she knew all about Mr Anderson’s visit, but she did not possess a description of him and was expecting him later in the day.
Thomas was supervising the gwiberary today, and a boy from the village was watching over the wyverns.
Neither could be spared from their duties to look for one visitor in a crowd.
Briefly, Una considered asking for help from Pip, or even sending him after his stepfather (he could not have reached the school yet), who had offered assistance to her only a few minutes ago during their violin lesson.
But each of them would bring their own ideas and plans, and even as she considered it, she remembered the time Oolong had got hold of the end of a ball of wool she had just wound up and gone running with it through the passages of the abbey.
She could remember the feeling of the yarn spinning free, rushing off into infinity.
And her, a tiny, Sisyphean figure of order, gathering it up endlessly.
