Mrs. Gooding was starting to warm up to me, but Andrews was another story. He seemed to bristle whenever I went downstairs, and I didn’t know what I had done to offend him. I finally asked Mrs. Gooding. With a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, she said, “It’s got nothing to do with you, dear.
“You see, during the war, the male servants went into the military, and because of mandatory national service, the girls were hired on at the factories, making bombs or building airplanes and the like. Even though unemployment is very high right now, most of them don’t want to come back into service. It’s a dead-end job, you see, so most of the work is hired out.” The ash on Mrs. Gooding’s cigarette was now an inch long. It was only when tiny flakes started to fall onto her sweater that she finally flicked off the ash. “It’s been hard on Mr. Andrews because, before the war, the Alcotts always had guests, and some very important people they were. Lady Patricia says that when they start entertaining again, she’s going to hire a caterer.” Stabbing the air with her cigarette, Mrs. Gooding said, “Where does that leave me, I ask you? Planning the menus and telling the caterers where everything is, that’s where. But I’ve got nowhere to go. So I’m staying right where I am until they carry me out feet first.”
Chapter 35
I had been living at the Alcotts for about three weeks when I came home from work to a darkened house. Because of energy conservation, only the light in the foyer was left on. Tonight there was no light in the foyer, but there was one coming from under the door to the morning room. When I opened the door, I didn’t see anyone, so I shut the light as I had been instructed to do. Out of the darkness came a voice saying, “If you don’t mind.”
I was so startled that I let out a very loud, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
“None of the above,” the voice said. “I am, however, Geoff Alcott.” Rising from his chair and extending his hand, he asked, “Are you the Canadian or an intruder?”
“Neither,” I said, waiting for my heart to stop pounding. “I’m Maggie Joyce. I’m boarding here.”
“I apologize for startling you, but no one informed me we had a boarder, even my father, whom I saw three days ago.” Looking around, he said, “Where the hell is everyone? Don’t we have servants anymore?”
Taking off my coat and hat, I said, “Your father is probably at his club. Your mother is in Surrey with your sister, Lily. Mrs. Gooding is gone for a few days, and it’s Andrews’s night off. So it’s just me, and possibly Jim Budd.”
I had been warned about Geoff. According to just about everyone, he was extremely intelligent, loved to argue, and exasperated everyone who came in contact with him — with one exception — his father.
“Ah, an American,” he said. “Let’s see. You are from somewhere on the East Coast. I attended university in Connecticut, so I know you’re not from New England, nor are you from New York City. There’s a certain nasal intonation, so I’m going to guess…”
“I can help you out here,” I said. When I had first moved to Washington, I had been the butt of numerous jokes because of my nasal accent and my hick colloquialisms. “I’m from eastern Pennsylvania.”
“Damn. I was going to say Pennsylvania,” he said in a schoolboy voice. “How is it that we are so fortunate as to be graced with your presence?”
“I am a friend of Beth and Jack Crowell’s. When the Canadian boarder left, your mother asked if I would like to come and live here. I’m staying in Violet’s bedroom.”
“The Beatrix Potter suite, as it’s known around here,” he said, correcting me. Slumping into his chair, Geoff apologized. “Sorry. The Channel crossing was rather nasty.”
Geoff had seen my typewriter and asked what I was doing. I explained about the Catons’ plans to convert Montclair into a hotel and to market the mansion as the ancestral home of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“Mrs. Caton has asked me to write a booklet giving a brief history of the Lacey family, especially its connection to the characters in Pride and Prejudice.”
“I may be able to help you with your research. While at St. Paul’s, I was assigned a history project that required family research. Since Mother was not a saver — if one of her children wished to preserve any of his or her school papers, they had to do it themselves — I have my school reports upstairs. If you can delay your research for tonight, I will give you my papers, and you may go through them tomorrow at your leisure.”
After a long day, I was more than ready to let it go for the evening.
“I’ll leave the papers on the table in the foyer,” Geoff said, standing and stretching. “Please be kind. I was very young when I wrote them.”
Geoff did leave the papers, and they were a treasure trove. When I came home from work the next evening, I immediately set to work incorporating his research. I was busily typing when Geoff came up behind me and, once again, startled me. I couldn’t decide if he was doing it on purpose or not. I was having flashbacks of growing up with a brother who thought there was nothing funnier than scaring the daylight out of his sisters.
“I am here to make amends,” he said and handed me a can of Danish ham. “I have a reputation for being obnoxious, and I certainly lived up to it last night. I smuggled this ham into the country from Belgium, and I am inviting you to join me for dinner.”
It was only a one-pound can, but the thought of real ham made my mouth water. Since arriving in England, I had eaten only spiced ham, or Spam, as it was known to millions of servicemen who had been forced to eat it during the war. I was able to get it from AAFES, but I never made the mistake of confusing it with real ham. I offered to set up a tray with cheese and crackers.
A cold front had moved through the city, and the house was chilly in every room, except the study. When I returned from the kitchen, I found Geoff sitting in a chair with his shoes off and his feet in front of a space heater holding a broken key from the ham. Without the key, the can couldn’t be opened. I decided a broken key was not going to keep me from eating ham, so I took the can downstairs and went at it with a variety of kitchen utensils until it surrendered. When I came in with a plate of sliced ham, Geoff started clapping.
“May I ask what you were doing in Brussels?”
“In March, the Western European nations signed the Treaty of Brussels establishing a military alliance. Since the United States has all of the money and most of the military materiel, we are now working on an agreement that would bring your country into the alliance. My current role is to deliver papers to the Foreign Office here in London regarding those negotiations.” Sighing, he said, “You would think there was no such thing as the telephone, telegraph, or teletype the way I go back and forth across the Channel.”
While cutting his ham, Geoff informed me that, in Brussels, the shops were full of every type of commodity and consumer goods. “Shoes, clothing, ham, eggs, bacon — all are plentiful. I don’t understand why Britain is still experiencing such privation when Belgium, a country occupied by the Germans, is back to normal. I’ve seen some very chubby, well-shod Belgians.”
“What did you do during the war?”
“I interrogated German prisoners captured during the Battle of the Bulge. But by time I got there, the poor bastards were sitting in groups, waiting — hoping — to be captured. They were more frightened of their fellow Germans than they were of us. The SS had been hanging those whom they considered to be deserters from whatever structure was handy, usually a lamppost or tree, although they tended to shoot the officers. So these war-weary soldiers allowed us to stumble upon them. For some, their uniform was their first pair of long pants. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-old boys. Damn depressing.”