A Map of Glass - Jane Urquhart [90]
A few days later, while helping Marie roll pastry dough in the kitchen, Annabelle glanced out the window and was the first to spot the arrival of her nephew at the end of the leafy lane that led to the hotel. The arrival itself was not unexpected; he often spent some of the summer there with his parents, though, by this time, he had little in common with them and was mildly embarrassed by their station in life, which, to his mind, was entirely defined by their position as innkeepers. What was surprising was the letter that preceded him, a letter in which he had stated his intention to stay for a considerable length of time—long enough to oversee the completion of a house nearby. Maurice, it would seem, had decided to become a gentleman farmer. Neither his parents nor Annabelle could quite fathom this; Maurice, to their knowledge, had shown not the slightest interest in the natural world. In fact, Maurice had shown interest in next to nothing beyond his employment as assistant manager of the Bank of Commerce in Kingston. Added to this was a further surprise. Seated beside him in the approaching buggy was a fair-haired woman. Annabelle, who was standing by the kitchen window watching the couple disembark from the buggy, knew by the woman’s unmistakably commanding gestures, and by her nephew’s obvious attention to those gestures, that this woman had the devil in her as big as a woodchuck. There is going to be trouble here, she thought. She considered returning to Timber Island in order to avoid the drama she sensed was about to take place, but her curiosity got the better of her.
It wasn’t long before she came to know that the trouble she had intuited was not to be of a short duration, for the Badger, as it turned out, had married it. “My name is Caroline Woodman,” the young woman announced as she entered the hall and began removing the pins from her hat. “Maurice and I are married.” Maurice, who was at that very moment struggling with hatboxes and suitcases, and a variety of assorted pieces of feminine luggage, looked uncharacteristically sheepish at the mention of his marriage, but said nothing. “He would have written to you,” the woman called Caroline continued, “but I thought he should tell you in person. After all, I had to tell my papa in person and that was not an easy thing to do, I can assure you.” Having delivered this piece of information, the young woman swept past the small assembly, entered the sitting room, and collapsed on one of the chairs, throwing her feathered hat onto one of the sidetables as she did so.
Annabelle followed the girl into the sitting room in order to observe her more closely. The eyes, she decided, were too small and too close together. There were too many freckles on her otherwise milk-white skin and, by the look of her, she might fatten as she grew older. These were the only physical deformities that Annabelle could find on the person of Maurice’s bride, but they would have to do for now.
“Maurice,” the young woman called in the direction of the hall where her husband and his parents were still standing as if frozen to the floorboards, “come in here and introduce me to this elderly lady. Is she a relation of yours? And who were all those people on the porch?”
Maurice walked into the room and sat down by Caroline’s side. “She is my Aunt Annabelle,” he said. “But,” he added, vaguely embarrassed, “those people we passed on the veranda, those people are the summer patrons.” He seemed to have forgotten altogether about his parents, who were now standing quietly in the doorway. “I am Maurice’s father,” Branwell offered. He put his arm around Marie. “And this is his mother.”
“I’m not elderly,” said Annabelle, glancing