The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [247]
“Thursday Next,” I said. “Here for Jurisfiction—Miss Havisham.”
The footman, who had large bulging eyes and a curved head like a frog, opened the door and announced me simply by rearranging the words a bit:
“Miss Havisham, Thursday Next—here for Jurisfiction!”
I stepped inside and frowned at the empty hall, wondering quite who the footman thought he was actually announcing me to. I turned to ask him where I should go, but he bowed stiffly and walked—excruciatingly slowly, I thought—to the other side of the hall, where he opened a door and then stood back, staring at something above and behind me. I thanked him, stepped in and found myself in the central ballroom of the house. The room was painted in white and pale blue, and the walls, where not decorated with delicate plaster moldings, were hung with lavish gold-framed mirrors. Above me the glazed ceiling let in the evening light, but already I could see servants preparing candelabra.
It had been a long time since the Jurisfiction offices had been used as a ballroom. The floor space was liberally covered with sofas, tables, filing cabinets and desks piled high with paperwork. To one side a table had been set up with coffee urns, and tasty snacks were arrayed upon delicate china. There were two dozen or so people milling about, sitting down, chatting or just staring vacantly into space. I could see Akrid Snell at the far side of the room, speaking into what looked like a small gramophone horn connected by a flexible brass tube to the floor. I tried to get his attention, but at that moment—
“Please,” said a voice close by, “draw me a sheep!”
I looked down to see a young boy of no more than ten. He had curly golden locks and stared at me with an intensity that was, to say the least, unnerving.
“Please,” he repeated, “draw me a sheep.”
“You had better do as he asks,” said a familiar voice close by. “Once he starts on you he’ll never let it go.”
It was Miss Havisham. I dutifully drew the best sheep I could and handed the result to the boy, who walked away, very satisfied with the result.
“Welcome to Jurisfiction,” said Miss Havisham, still limping slightly from her injury at Booktastic and once more dressed in her rotted wedding robes. “I won’t introduce you to everyone straightaway, but there are one or two people you should know.”
She took me by the arm and guided me towards a conservatively dressed lady who was attending to the servants as they laid out some food upon the table.
“This is Mrs. John Dashwood; she graciously allows us the use of her home. Mrs. Dashwood, this is Miss Thursday Next— she is my new apprentice.”
I shook Mrs. Dashwood’s delicately proffered hand, and she smiled politely.
“Welcome to Norland Park, Miss Next. You are fortunate indeed to have Miss Havisham as your teacher—she does not often take pupils. But tell me, as I am not so very conversant with contemporary fiction—what book are you from?”
“I’m not from a book, Mrs. Dashwood.”
Mrs. Dashwood looked startled for a moment, then smiled even more politely, took my arm in hers, muttered a pleasantry to Miss Havisham about “getting acquainted” and steered me off towards the tea table.
“How do you find Norland, Miss Next?”
“Very lovely, Mrs. Dashwood.”
“Can I offer you a Crumbobbilous cutlet?” she asked in a clearly agitated manner, handing me a sideplate and napkin and indicating the food.
“Or some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Next.”
“You seem most anxious to do so.”
She glanced furtively to left and right and lowered her voice.
“Does everyone out there think my husband and I are so very cruel, cutting the girls and their mother out of Henry Dashwood’s bequest?”
She looked at me so very seriously that I wanted to smile.
“Well,” I began—
“Oh I knew it!” gasped Mrs. Dashwood. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “I told John that we should reconsider—I expect out there we are burnt in