In the Night Wood

“Really, Charles, I’m fine.” And then, relenting, with a small smile, “Walk it off, right?”

“I guess so,” he said.

“Well, let me get your bag, at least,” Merrow said. “Come on.”

Together — with Charles and Merrow hovering to either side of Erin — they made their halting way toward the house. By the time they’d reached the stairs, six of them, climbing to a square portico, the door had been opened from within. A stout, fifty-something woman in full Mrs. Danvers livery — black skirts, white apron, even a black cap with her gray hair pinned up underneath — descended to meet them. It was like seeing a nurse in whites, complete with cap, in your local emergency room.

“Ah, Mrs. Ramsden,” Merrow said.

Mrs. Ramsden smiled. “Here, let me help you, now,” she said, reaching for Erin’s arm, and together they hobbled up the stairs into Hollow House.

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They stood in a vaulted entrance hall, like children in a tale, long lost and returned at last to break the spell that had been cast over their ancestral home. A great chandelier illuminated the tapestries and framed portraits that adorned the walls. Doors to the left and right stood closed. The high archway before them framed a long, luxuriously furnished salon.

“I saw you fall,” Mrs. Ramsden said. “That stile is a menace. I don’t know how many times I’ve told Mr. Harris we need to do something about it.” She sighed in exasperation with Mr. Harris as she led them through the salon, past twin oaken staircases that curved like the necks of swans to the gallery above. The balusters had been carved with an intricate motif of leaf and vine. Cunning foxlike faces peered out at them as they passed. “Anyway,” she added, “welcome home. The house isn’t always lit up this way, but we wanted to put her best face forward for you. I’d hoped to give you the grand tour, but I don’t think you’re in any shape to enjoy it, Mrs. Hayden. Let’s get you upstairs and see if we can’t find some ice for that ankle.”

They went up a back staircase to what had been Mr. Hollow’s living quarters: a house inside the house, Charles thought, and a luxuriously appointed one: polished floors and plush oriental rugs, Victorian-era furniture, built-in bookcases stocked with neat rows of leather-bound books. Capacious, high-ceilinged rooms — study, sitting room, dining room — radiated off the large central foyer, where a grand staircase curved up to an open gallery. “There are four suites and a maid’s room upstairs,” Mrs. Ramsden said, leading them down a wide hall into a breakfast room lined with windows, providing a panoramic view of the lawn. There was a second stone house down there. A cottage, really: a single floor, with narrow windows.

“That’s Mr. Harris’s house,” Merrow said, putting Erin’s satchel on the table. “He’s the estate’s steward.”

“We do hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Mrs. Ramsden said as she got Erin settled. “I’ll get you some ice.”

Merrow took out her phone. “Let me see if I can find you a doctor.”

“Please don’t bother. I just twisted it.”

“It’s no bother,” Merrow said and turned away, holding the phone to her ear. By the time Mrs. Ramsden returned with a dish towel and a large plastic bag of ice, Merrow was saying, “Yes, I expect you to come out here, John. We’re speaking of the new mistress of Hollow House. Yes, three should be fine. Yes, I’m sure she’ll survive until then. Good. Thank you, then.”

She ended the call and smiled — a little tightly, Charles thought. “Dr. Colbeck will be here at three,” she said. “Can you endure it for a couple of hours?” When Erin nodded, Merrow turned to Mrs. Ramsden. “Does Mr. Harris intend to join us?”

Mrs. Ramsden hesitated. “See, we thought you’d be arriving a little bit later. Mr. Harris ran into Yarrow. I expect him back directly.”

“Not the day I should have chosen for a trip into the village,” Merrow said. “Well.” She looked at Erin. “You seem to be in good hands. If there’s nothing else I can do for you …”

“You’ve done more than enough.”

“Then I’ll be off.” At the doorway, she turned. “Keys. Mustn’t forget the keys.” She reached into her purse and withdrew a heavy key ring. “I’ve marked the important ones. Mr. Harris will have to help with the others.”

A doorbell rang in the foyer.

“I suppose that’s him,” Mrs. Ramsden said.

“No doubt,” Merrow said. “I’ll let him in on my way out. In the meantime, if you need anything, please do ring me up. You have my card.” And then, smiling at Erin, “I’m sure you’ll be up and about in no time.”

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“The house operates on a skeletal staff, sir,” said Cillian Harris as he led Charles through the salon. “Mr. Hollow kept just enough people on to maintain the property — groundskeepers and housemaids. It’ll be a bit of a lifestyle change, sir.”

Charles glanced at Harris. He looked more like a linebacker than a steward: mid-thirties, with a thatch of unruly dark hair and a crooked nose — not unhandsome in a rough-hewn kind of way. His eyes were bloodshot, and though the man seemed sober enough, Charles was almost certain that he’d caught the scent of whisky on his breath.

It was just past two o’clock.

“Mrs. Ramsden sees to the living quarters and supervises the housemaids,” Harris was saying. “She’ll arrive most mornings around seven. I’m always available. I live in the cottage. You may have noticed it from the breakfast room. I manage the estate.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Under your direction, of course.”

“Well, let’s work on a more informal basis, then. Why don’t you call me Charles?”

“I couldn’t do that, Mr. Hayden. All my life I served Mr. Hollow, and my father before me, and never once did I call him by his given name. Mr. and Mrs. Hayden you must be to me, by force of habit if nothing else.”

Charles reminded himself that he was an interloper in a foreign land. The custom of the country and all that. “If you insist.”

Harris nodded. “I understand that you intend to do research.”

“Yes, Caedmon Hollow, his book —”

“I know his book all right.” Then, hesitant, as though he felt he was overstepping his bounds, “Never should have written it, if you want my opinion.”

Not really, Charles thought, but he said nothing.

“Well, you’ll want to be back before the doctor arrives,” Harris said. “Let’s just have a glance into the library.”

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“Tea?” Mrs. Ramsden said.

“Why not?” Erin said.

Mrs. Ramsden busied herself setting out the service: cookies on a platter, sugar cubes and milk, floral teacups and saucers. Everything had the pearly, translucent glow of bone china. “It’s been a long trip from America, I warrant. You must be tired.”

“Exhausted.”

“As soon as I set out your tea, I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Why don’t you join me instead? I’d enjoy the company.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I fear our different stations in life preclude such intimacies.”

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Ramsden, I am thoroughly middle class, I assure you.”

“Mr. Harris wouldn’t approve.”

“Well, Mr. Harris works for me now.”

Mrs. Ramsden offered her an uncertain smile.

“I insist,” Erin said. “We’ll finish up before he comes back. Charles will spend half an hour in the library alone.”

“I’ll have to get another cup.”